Finality
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: Hogwarts is no longer safe for Harry Potter. In an attempt to save his life, and those of the students, Dumbledore must send Harry and his tag-along best friends to a safer place...all under the protection of Severus Snape. (yes, has both slash and het)
1. Of Potions and Utter Prats

Disclaimer: I own about as much as this as I do Britney Spears CDs - that is, absolutely nothing. Well, except for the plot. The plot is mine. But that's more like downloading one song, rather than buying the whole CD. . .yeah.  
  
Rating: For now, it's a cool PG for some swearing and tiny hints of innuendo, but it will later be jacked up to an R (like everything I write, it seems) for sex, death and money, honey. Not so much money. Money isn't, like, porn. Unless they started printing bills in which all the Prime Ministers/Presidents/What-Have-You were naked and doing naughty things to each other. . .but I really and truly wish they never do. o_O  
  
Unless, of course, Alan Rickman happened to become Prime Minister of Canada. Along with Johnny Depp. And Hugh Jackman. Mmm. Screw the fact that not a one of them is Canadian.  
  
And in conclusion to that, this story is currently rated PG. Huzzah for random topic changes. =D;  
  
Author's Notes: I'm not quite sure where this story came from, but meh, it's here. Please note that, in all likelihood, this will become SS/HP in the later chapters, and could involve (gasp!) sexual situations. Also in later chapters, if blood and torture makes you squeamish, then. . .well, you're screwed, more or less.  
  
P.S.: For any of those who read this who also happen to read my other fic, 'Pandora', I kid you not when I say that I really am still working on it. I promise you. v.v I'm already working on getting the next chapter out. XD;  
  
Alright, so, let's get the show on the road. Enjoy!  
  
///  
  
Finality  
  
///  
  
Male PMS existed, Harry Potter concluded. And it was called Severus Snape.  
  
Irritable, moody, and dark, the man was as ill-tempered as a pissed off badger on a blazing summer's day. The classroom seemed to reflect Snape's consistently dark mood - that is to say, the dungeon that Potions was held in had no windows, so the only light was given off by the torches that burned on the wall. The ambience was oppressing.  
  
The professor of said class was slowly gliding (the man did not simply 'walk') down one row, watching as his students measured and poured in their ingredients as per instructed on the chalkboard. They were creating something called 'Mellaphorous', a draught that was supposed to induce mellow feelings. It was a surprisingly complicated potion, and Harry figured that anybody would need it, even the most hippiest of hippie, after having to go through all the painstaking steps that the students were forced to take.  
  
Harry stared at the concoction below him, which didn't look too bad thus far. It was simmering nicely, having now turned a nigh-transparent silver colour; a smell that wasn't unlike that of chocolate wafted to his nose - Harry realized that his potion was actually turning out well. Extremely well, for that matter.  
  
The embodiment of manly tetchiness was currently examining a Slytherin's potion, and of course, was not sneering in contempt as he did with the Gryffindors. It was so unbelievably unfair, Harry thought as he continued to stew his (Potion's) juices. Just because Grease Lightning was head of the Slytherin household, it didn't mean that he could treat everyone differently!  
  
Harry forced himself to stop thinking. He was sounding dangerously like Hermione, in his own opinion, and Hermione, while still his friend, didn't exactly have a personality that Harry strove to attain. He doubted he could get a stick that far up his ass, no matter how hard he tried.  
  
. . . of course, that did not sound at all dirty. Right. Of course it didn't.  
  
He shook his head; he had to //concentrate// goddamn him. He wasn't about to screw up one of the only potions that, in his entire career at Hogwarts, was about to turn out almost perfectly - this time, he was sure that, when Severe Temper made his way over to Harry's cauldron, all of his professor's smarmy comments would quickly be disarmed by simply looking at what Harry had created.  
  
The Boy Who Lived smirked to himself, watching Snape move to another cauldron to thoroughly berate a brown-haired Gryffindor girl who was attempting to liquify a solid mass of ugly orange. Continuing to watch this, Harry's hands moved his stirring stick, continually swishing about the contents of his Mellaphorous potion. . . today would not be the day he'd be on the receiving end of his Potions professor's insidious words.  
  
Harry stared hard at Snape, who seemed to not notice this. His seventh - and final - year with the rather intimidating man felt as if it were a long time coming. Finally, he'd never have to see the greasy bastard again, he'd never have to hear one of those damn sarcastic insults, and he'd be showing off with his perfect po-  
  
There was a soft bubbling noise coming from Harry's cauldron. He looked down.  
  
In a pure fit of irony, Harry's brew had decided to angrily explode in his face, and consequently, all over him. With an extremely loud bang, silver liquid sprayed all over the boy's features, staining his robes and generally making quite a mess. The entire class stared at him - thankfully, Harry wasn't able to see any of their expressions due to the fact that his glasses were completely covered by the strangely viscous liquid, although he heard laughing. Goddamned Slytherins.  
  
He also heard the distinct swish of heavy robes approaching his area. Wiping off a bit of the sludgy goo from his glasses with the sleeve of his robe, he was faced with what seemed to be a solid wall of black. His eyes trailed upwards, and Harry soon discovered that this black wall was attached to a head (or vice versa), which had equally black hair, and the eyes of this head were staring right back down at him.  
  
Snape elegantly arched an eyebrow.  
  
"Now, Potter. . ." the taller man drawled, his voice smooth and thick with sarcasm, "I am quite certain that Mellaphorous is a potion that stays inside the cauldron when it is being created. Isn't that correct?"  
  
"Yes, sir," Harry muttered, feeling the sudden urge to deck his professor, but knowing that this feeling would soon pass, and it was no use getting into any trouble so early in the year.  
  
"Mm. What could have possibly gone wrong, Potter? Considering your //stellar// abilities in this class - " Draco Malfoy sniggered at this, " - I am positive that you've managed to yet again muddle a relatively simple potion."  
  
Another, albeit slightly more venomous "Yes, sir" issued from Harry's mouth. Relatively simple my ass, Harry thought, glancing over at the front of the classroom, where all three chalkboards were covered in Snape's slanted writing, detailing every instruction to the fullest. Between Harry's vision impairment and the fact that the Slytherins were always attempting to sabotage his cauldron, the bespectacled young man currently covered in sticky liquid thought he had been doing quite an exemplary job of creating the Mellaphorous draught. What could he have done wrong. . .?  
  
"I see. Well, judging by the amount of crushed bat wing you have left in your vial, it seems that you used too little of it to start with, though that would not account for the spontaneous combustion you've managed to conjure here. It also appears that you forgot the rather important sliced snerckwheat. Yet, it would take so much more in order to make a draught intended for calming into something so. . .violent. Any ideas, Potter?"  
  
Harry could feel the tips of his ears burning, rather aware that all eyes in the class were glued to his form. He shifted a little, which created a rather odd squishing sound due to the exploded potion.  
  
"No, sir," Harry said quietly after a few rather tense moments of deliberation. In turn, Snape smirked, looking down his hooked nose at the Gryffindor covered in his own concoction.  
  
"I expected as much from you, Potter. I'm sure your ego takes up far too much space in your head to allow any sort of important information to weasel its way between your ears." The half of the classroom populated by those of the Slytherin house erupted with nasty snickers and giggles, while the Gryffindors stayed cautiously silent, not wanting to lose house points and gain detentions.  
  
Harry had to clench his jaw, feeling the familiar bubble of hot anger rise within him at his professor's cold words. Knowing that if he were to open his mouth to respond, only a slew of derogatory words that would force him to pardon his French would spill forth, rather than something otherwise logical. Harry kept quiet, waiting for Snape's taunting to continue.  
  
"Look at the chalkboard, Potter, or are you blind as well?" The boy covertly shot a glare at the older man, before turning his attention to the boards at the front of the room, wiping off his glasses one more time for good measure.  
  
"Please read to the class instruction number twelve. If you are capable, that is." Another round of laughter from the Slytherins, and Harry was seriously thinking about going to the management on this one. Enough ought to be enough. However, for the time being, Harry simply took a deep breath and read off the chalkboard, making a mental 'check' for everything that he was sure he did.  
  
"Pour diced flabblestaff into the cauldron, allow to simmer untouched for five minutes." Check. "Proceed to stir three times clockwise, and three times counter-clockwise." Check. "Make sure stirring does not exceed six rotations. . ."  
  
Oh. Damn.  
  
"Good, you //can// read, Potter. I feared that you may have been illiterate; of course, that would give you at least a plausible excuse for mangling your potion." Blushing with embarrassment, Harry looked steadfastly at the ground, his fists balled by his side. It was all he could do to prevent himself from physically attempting to assault his Potions professor.  
  
Snape waved his wand and uttered a cleaning spell, which rid both the cauldron and Harry of the gooey mess, and said: "I hope you've learned from this experience, Potter. Though judging by past events, I am afraid it is far too much to ask of you. Ten points from Gryffindor."  
  
Feeling righteously bitter after having watched his potion (and thusly grade) disappear, Harry barely noticed when the bell rang, signaling the end of class. Quietly, the rest of the students bottled their potions, taking the vials up to Professor Snape to be marked later - all, of course, except Harry, who now had no such potion to bottle. Slytherins and Gryffindors alike then collected their belongings, making their way towards the exit of the dungeons. With one of Snape's simply irrepressible smirks, the man sat himself gracefully down at his desk to begin marking a pile of sixth year essays on the correct use of flesh-eating bacteria in paralysis potions.  
  
The boy was left standing in the classroom, holding his text loosely in one hand, pencil case clutched in the other. Harry kept quiet as he looked at Snape, who was hunched over his desk, quill scratching against parchment. For a short few moments, the boy simply stood, working on not vocalizing his rather intense embarrassment-cum-anger.  
  
A second later, Snape craned his neck up slightly, his eyes resting on the only person currently in the dungeon with him.  
  
"Well?" he asked, pausing his writing for a moment, not bothering to wipe a strand of black hair from his face, allowing it to simply hang there. This bit of inaction irked Harry to such a degree that he was sure he felt his eye twitch.  
  
Another moment of silence.  
  
"Nothing," Harry finally said, his fist clenching around the strap of his pencil case just a tad more. With that, the Boy Who Lived turned on his heel, and exited the classroom as fast as he could manage without tripping over his own robes.  
  
~*~  
  
As a wise man once said, "Time is an illusion - lunchtime, doubly so." It seemed to ring true in the case of Harry Potter, who personally thought that this particular lunchtime was much, much shorter than usual. However, glancing down at his watch, it was revealed to Harry that time was ticking away as usual, and it was obvious that he was on the verge of some sort of long-overdo psychotic breakdown.  
  
Well, perhaps not, but be that as it may, Harry figured that his irritated feelings, no doubt carried over from that dreadful Potions class, had something to do with his personal inability to correctly measure time in his head. That, and his head was just //killing// him - and it wasn't the scar hurting, either, so it wasn't even a relatively useful headache, which only served to make the boy feel worse. He munched half-heartedly on a ham sandwich, taking sips of his pumpkin juice every now and then. Ron glanced at him.  
  
"You okay, mate?" the boy asked, swallowing the remnants of his tuna sandwich, picking out a roll of bread from one of the multitude of baskets that were currently residing on the Gryffindor table. Harry sighed, running a hand through his unruly black hair.  
  
"I don't know. Just tired, I guess," he replied half-assedly, poking at an innocent pickle with his fork. He was starting to feel a little too warm in the Great Hall, which was packed with children and teenagers all around him. Goddamn people.  
  
Hermione, ever the observant one, looked at Harry over her own glass of pumpkin juice. She decided to take a stab at why Harry looked like a kid who was just told that Santa wasn't real.  
  
"Don't let Professor Snape get to you, Harry. You know that you're not a failure," she said, attempting to be reassuring. Of course, it didn't help Harry much.  
  
". . . thanks, 'Mione," he said, finally deciding to eat the dill pickle that had been previously rolling around on his plate like some sort of rolling thing.  
  
"Yeah, Harry. Snape's just a bastard, don't listen to him," Ron interjected, nodding as if to emphasize his point. The red-haired boy deliberated on whether or not he truly wanted to have a bit of Caesar salad, but quickly decided against it, since salad was relatively healthy. While Harry nodded in agreement with Ron's comment, Hermione, as always, looked aghast.  
  
"Ron, don't say that! Professor Snape may not be our favourite person in the world, but he's still our teacher," the frizzy-haired girl pointed out, making quick work of a baby carrot.  
  
"Teacher schmeacher, 'Mione, he's a prick. Probably hasn't been laid in a hundred years, either," Ron said, which elicited a laugh from the Gryffindors in the immediate area, which did indeed include one Harry Potter. Hermione did her very best to keep the stern look on her face, however it wavered for a few moments, and a smirk shone through.  
  
"Yes, well. . . his personal life is also none of our business," she stated after clearing her throat and taking an orange from one of the baskets. As she began to peel it, she turned her attention back to Harry. "Just make sure to not let him get you down too much. Remember, if you need any help at all in Potions, you can always just come to me." The bespectacled young man smiled a little bit at his friend.  
  
"I know, thanks, but I think I'll be alright. After all, I've been through worse and survived, right? A surly git hasn't got anything on a Basilisk."  
  
"Well it is Snape we're talking about here - a glare from him and you might as well be Petrified," Ron pointed out, swallowing another mouthful of tuna.  
  
"Ron, if you look a Basilisk in the eye, it kills you, not Petrifies you." At this, Ron blinked twice.  
  
"Wait, then why the hell aren't you dead, 'Mione?"  
  
"I saw it through the mirror. It's when you see it indirectly that you become Petrified."  
  
Ron stared at her, looking a bit clueless.  
  
"You were //there//, Ron!"  
  
"..ohh yeah."  
  
Hermione mumbled something that was, no doubt, insulting to Ron under breath, before eating some more of her salad. Harry, also feeling a little put off by the fact that Ron had seemingly forgotten all their trials involving the Chamber of Secrets, went back to silently picking at his food. After all, something like having to //kill a giant snake// was generally not a thing that one forgot too easily.  
  
"We were talking about Snape before, right?" Ron asked after a couple moments of silence, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Hermione shot a look at him.  
  
"You really are an idiot, Ron Weasley."  
  
"I am not!"  
  
"Yes you are!"  
  
"No I'm not, you're just saying that because I'm not doing so well in Divination!"  
  
"And Herbology."  
  
"Sod those plants, that's what I say!"  
  
"You were supposed to put those plants in sod the other day, but you didn't! That's why you //failed!//"  
  
"Oh yeah? Well. . . you have frizzy hair!"  
  
They both went on like that for a little while, although Harry didn't seem much to care, or mind. Their banter floated off into the background, joining the rest of the sounds that the other students were making, synthesizing all into one tone of superfluous mush.  
  
God, Harry was depressed. And to think, only half the day was over.  
  
~*~  
  
Needless to say, Harry felt absolutely and completely exhausted by the time his last class was over. He had to physically pick himself up out of his classroom chair, lest he fall asleep in it; he had a headache right behind his eyes, and he managed to feel hot and cold at the exact same time. The weather outside certainly did nothing for his present mood, either: cold and drizzly and generally very British, the entire atmosphere just seemed crushing, even within the walls of Hogwarts, where the outside world was currently invisible in the hall that he was in.  
  
A nice cup of hot tea and a nap sounded like heaven to the boy as he only half-listened to what his two best friends were saying. They had finished the day off with Professor Binns, so everyone's brains were feeling rather dulled, ergo the fact that no one seemed to notice that Harry Potter could have passed rather spectacularly for a zombie.  
  
"You'd think a ghost'd be interesting, but no. His personality's as dead as he is," Ron lamented, shifting his textbooks from one arm to the other. "And on top of that, he gives out enough homework to last until the day //I// die. It's a conspiracy to kill his students - either by boredom, or by hand cramps. I swear it."  
  
"Honestly Ron, what would Professor Binns have to gain from killing his own students?" the token female of the group asked in a rather chastising manner. Ron leaned in close to Hermione, as if he were sharing an extremely important secret.  
  
"Because. . .he wants us to //join him!//" he said, unable to help the grin that broke out on his face, "And he'll create an army of the most boring sods in all the world!" Hermione simply rolled her eyes, sighing at the redhead's immaturity.  
  
"That is one of the stupidest things I have ever heard in my entire life, Ron. And I own a television set that has cable." Ron furrowed his eyebrows.  
  
"Television, eh? My dad talks about that stuff all the time, you know. He goes on about the moving pictures and the sound and whatnot. Oh!" he exclaimed, suddenly remembering something. "I've been meaning to ask you for a long time, 'Mione - who's Monty Python, and why does he have a Flying Circus? I thought the title was self-explanatory, but my dad tried to talk to me about it, and. . .well, I had to leave the room so my head wouldn't explode."  
  
At that moment, Nearly Headless Nick happened to float by, providing adequate distraction for Hermione from Ron's question. They all said hello to the friendly apparition, who in turn lifted his hat (and a bit of his head) in acknowledgement.  
  
"Hello, hello! How have you three been faring?" the ghost asked them, smiling indomitably. Hermione and Ron smiled back, and Harry stared out the nearby window, wavering slightly.  
  
"We're doing well, Sir Nick," Ron told him with a grin. Nick's attention, however, wandered over to where Harry looked about ready to pass out.  
  
"Oh dear, what's wrong with Harry?" Nick inquired, tilting his semi- translucent and semi-decapitated head. Harry, having heard his name, turned his head, blinking lazily.  
  
"Huh?" the black haired boy uttered intelligently. "Oh. Hi, Nick," he said after wiping at his eyes, barely stifling a yawn. The poltergeist before him tut-tutted, putting his hands on his hips.  
  
"Mr. Potter, you should take better care of yourself! You look as if you haven't slept in days. When I was still alive, I had trouble with sleep too, you know. A warm glass of milk and a good piece of literature would always lull me to sleep on such nights, I'd suggest you try that," Nick said knowingly.  
  
"Now that he mentions it, you do look like you need some sleep, mate," Ron said after a short moment of scrutiny. Harry nodded, feeling as if a fog had wrapped around his brain.  
  
"I'll keep your advice in mind, Nick. Thanks," Harry said with a bit of a weak smile.  
  
"Good, good. Get yourself to bed, then - looks to me as if you'll sleep like the dead," Nick commented with wink. Hermione and Ron chuckled lightly at the spirit's joke, however Harry simply yawned.  
  
"We'll get him back to the common room, not to worry," Hermione said, linking her arm with Harry's, nudging him a little to get the boy moving. "See you later, Nick!" The ghost called out his own goodbye to the three students, and floated merrily on his way in the opposite direction from where Ron, Hermione, and Harry were heading.  
  
In truth, Harry couldn't quite explain why he suddenly felt so tired. True, he'd been getting less sleep than usual for the past week or so, but that wasn't a terrible rare occurrence. He had survived on much less sleep in his relatively short lifetime, and had been able to function without having his friends practically drag him back to his dormitory.  
  
It could always be hormones, Harry reasoned, his mind feeling even more foggy now. Or he could be developing a cold, which really wouldn't be fun. A runny nose was no laughing matter. Well, unless you went for that sort of joking, and frankly, Harry didn't. Dudley had enjoyed such toilet humour, which was enough alone to make Harry unappreciative of farts or snot for their comedic value. Same with reality TV - not that he ever really got to //watch// any TV at the house he lived in on Privet Drive, but when your options were either Big Brother 5,742 or Fame Academy. . .well, TV suddenly wasn't something one was interested in watching.  
  
Before his tired and murky-feeling brain knew it, the three of them had arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady. Harry couldn't help but wonder why this Fat Lady had no other name but Fat Lady. Wasn't that offensive? Harry'd sure be pissed off if he was known as something like The Skinny Guy With Glasses. Surely being known for all eternity as the Fat Lady had to chip away at that poor woman's self-esteem, too.  
  
Hermione was about to say the password, when Harry piped up.  
  
"What's your name?" he asked the Fat Lady in the portrait. She certainly looked taken aback.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"What's your name? You can't just be known as the Fat Lady, can you? I mean, your mother must've been really sick if that's what she named you. . . .not that I'm insulting your mother," Harry blathered, paying remarkable rapt attention to the Fat Lady's face as he talked. She looked rather flummoxed.  
  
"I. . .w-well. . .it's Catherine. . ." she managed to say, her eyes wide with confusion, "But why do you ask?" Harry shrugged.  
  
"Curiosity, I suppose. I mean, everyone has to have a name, and since we see each other so often, what with you being the gateway to the Gryffindor tower, I thought we'd be on a first-name basis." Harry blinked. "Is that wall moving?"  
  
Hermione and Ron looked in the direction that Harry was staring. The wall, it seemed, was not moving at all. Hermione smiled apologetically at the portrait of Catherine the Fat Lady.  
  
"Don't mind him. He's, ah, just a little sleep deprived," she explained. Catherine smiled back, albeit not apologetically in the least.  
  
"Don't worry about that. No one's ever asked me my name before, you see, and it was rather nice.it's been so long since anyone's called me by my first name. . ." She, too, stared off in the distance, lost within a memory.  
  
Of course, the three students still had to get into their dormitories, and thus felt a little guilty for having to shake the painted woman out of her reverie, albeit not physically, because that would obviously ruin the painting.  
  
"Um, Catherine? We still have to get into our rooms, y'know," Ron pointed out, smiling now much in the same fashion that Hermione was but moments before.  
  
"I think the wall's taunting me," Harry muttered, staring intently at the stone mammoth of a wall on the other side of the room. He narrowed his eyes. "Smarmy wall."  
  
Hermione and Ron both looked at Harry.  
  
"Uh, Harry, the wall's not doing //anything//," Ron said to him, attempting to break his friend's gaze from said stone barrier. Hermione placed her hand on Harry's forehead, frowned, and sighed.  
  
"He has a fever," she stated, before turning once again to look at Catherine. "Citrus Lady," Hermione pronounced clearly, and the Fat Lady swung open to admit the three of them.  
  
"I wish it were Christmas," Harry mumbled under his breath, stumbling only slightly as they made their way through the portrait hole, "because at least we'd all have presents instead of just suffering in the cold, all. . .without presents. Why is it so cold in here?"  
  
"It's not cold, Harry," Hermione explained to the boy patiently, taking on a nigh-maternal tone. "You're just sick, is all."  
  
"Oh," was all the Boy Who Lived said to this, yawning again, beginning to feel oddly sweaty in his heavy robes, yet rather cold at the same time. He shivered a little bit. A few moments later, they thankfully arrived in the Gryffindor common room; Hermione placed Harry in the overstuffed chair nearest the fire.  
  
"Appreto compress!" exclaimed Hermione, waving her wand above her overturned palm; instantly, a smallish bowl filled with cold water and a cloth appeared from thin air in the girl's hand. Pocketing her wand, she gave the bowl to Ron.  
  
"Here. Take Harry upstairs, and put this on his forehead. I'm sure he'll sleep the fever right off," she affirmed to Ron, who in turn nodded.  
  
"Right, mum." Hermione glowered a little at her redheaded friend, who simply smirked in return. "Okay, //Hermione//, I'll take him up."  
  
"Good, then. Try not to get him killed somehow up the stairs, //Ronald//," she said sarcastically, smirking in return. Ron rolled his eyes.  
  
"Oh come off it, I'm not //that// irresponsible. And besides you seriously did sound like my mother just then."  
  
"Ron?" Harry asked quietly from the couch. The freckled boy looked down at him, blinking somewhat owlishly.  
  
"Yeah, Harry?"  
  
"Hermione's your mum? Why didn't you tell me?" Harry said, sounding genuinely confused, though at the same time attempting to make his tone threatening through his rather slurred and sluggish speech. Ron's eyebrows shot up to nearly his hairline, and Hermione began laughing.  
  
"Get well soon, Harry," Hermione said through a few stray giggles, making her way up the stairs to the girl's dormitories, leaving Ron and Harry alone in the common room. Laughing a bit himself, Ron shook his head.  
  
"Alright, Harry, to bed with you," Ron sighed, leaning down to sling Harry's arm around his neck. He successfully managed to get Harry to his feet, although they both wavered a little as they walked, considering Harry was putting most of his weight against Ron's shoulder.  
  
"How come. . .you dint tell me 'Mione wus your mum?" Harry asked, his speech a little halted. His green eyes blinked slowly, the fever flushing his face pink. Ron laughed again.  
  
"Hermione's not my mum, Harry. We were just kidding around."  
  
"Ohh."  
  
Without a terrible amount of difficulty, Ron was able to heave Harry into his four-poster. Immediately, Harry shed his robes and crawled under his covers, drawing them up to his chin. He sighed a little as Ron put the compress on his forehead, and plucked his glasses off his face.  
  
"You'll crush them if you leave them on when you sleep, you know," Ron told his friend. Harry, frankly, didn't care, because he was back in his nice, fluffy bed, his head now resting on his nice, fluffy pillow. Ron said something else, but Harry couldn't quite make it out from his place between asleep and awake.  
  
"Mm. . .hm. . ." Harry mumbled softly, before everything around him disappeared, and he fell into the arms of sleep.  
  
~*~  
  
The boy awoke with a start, his green eyes shooting open. Taking in a deep breath, he sat up quickly - however, being that this boy was in a fevered state, moving his body at such a fast pace seemed to make the world spin around him. It reminded him of being in the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries.  
  
Maybe that thought contributed to the knotted feeling in his stomach, which, consequently, seemed to be pushing something. . . //up//. Harry Potter knew this feeling quite well. He was about to throw up.  
  
He stumbled out of his bed, nearly getting tangled up in the curtains that surrounded it. From this, he managed to knock over the bowl of cold water onto his feet - the compress, which had been sticking to his forehead up to this juncture in time, landed squarely on the ground with an odd, plopping noise. Harry took the time to swear under his breath.  
  
His legs felt like somebody had come along with a crowbar and pried all the bones out of them while he slept; which, he thought sadly, would not be too strange an occurrence if it happened to him. In order to steady himself, Harry kept against the far wall, leaning against the cool stone as he walked. A few times on his short journey to the bathrooms, Harry had to clamp a hand over his mouth so that he wouldn't spill the contents of his stomach all over the ground of the boy's dormitories - while a cleaning spell may have been able to get rid of such a mess easily, it still wouldn't do to possibly have someone watch you vomit all over the floor. How. . .embarrassing.  
  
After another few minutes of shuffling against the wall, and another few attempts of his body to expel the bile rising in his throat, Harry finally made it to the bathrooms. He rushed as fast as he could to one of the stalls, knelt before the porcelain god, and proceeded to spew.  
  
The retching sounds Harry was making echoed through the empty bathroom. The boy shuddered a little, coughing and spitting into the toilet, his stomach still twitching a bit under his thin t-shirt. He took a shaky breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and flushed the toilet, leaning his head against the side of the stall.  
  
He still felt incredibly warm, and no matter how tired he was, he knew he wasn't going to get much sleep in the state that he was in. Maybe Madame Pomfrey could help him. . .? Well, at the current hour, Harry thought it was doubtful, but at least it was worth something of a shot.  
  
Learning from his previous experience, Harry rose to his feet slowly and carefully, placing his weight on the side of the toilet stall. He realized, suddenly, that he had forgotten to put his glasses back on in his rush to get to the bathroom, and it explained why everything looks so blurry and out-of-focus to the boy.  
  
No matter. He knew his way around the school well enough to get by on hardly stellar vision. Slowly, he shuffled over to the sinks, gargling his mouth with the water from the taps, doing his darndest to get the awful stench and taste of vomit out of his mouth. Geeze, how did bulimics //do// this so frequently. . .? Harry pondered this for a few moments, standing a little dumbly before the sinks once he was finished. He could feel his entire body trembling minutely; hugging himself, he made the effort to turn around, and exit the bathrooms to go find the school's resident nurse.  
  
~*~  
  
As it turned out, Harry Potter only knew his way around the school well enough to get by on hardly stellar vision when we wasn't ill or dizzy. Much to his chagrin, the boy found this out the hard way as he walked down a corridor he thought he would recognize, but alas, had not the moment he began to walk through it. For some reason or another, this window looked too large, or that archway hadn't enough arch, or what the hell was //that// they had carved on that door?  
  
Making things worse was the fact that Harry just couldn't stop himself from shivering. His movements felt disjointed and oddly out of sync with one another; sometimes he'd catch himself leaning a little too far over or back, and as such, he'd almost collapse in a heap on the cold stone floor. Harry, a credit to the boy's nature, prevented this self-humiliation by once again using the wall as a guide.  
  
Harry made his way along as best he could. One of the most hindering aspects of this hallway, however, was the fact that it kept tilting to the right every time Harry had managed to regain (or re-lose) his balance. Now, it could also have just been Harry's lack of bearings, but Harry preferred to think of it as the room's fault. As such, the boy found his arms to be flailing about more often than not, searching for something to keep him stable if he ventured too far from the wall.  
  
He found something after a few minutes. To him, whatever it was happened to be tall, solid black, and it had luckily stepped in front of him just as he was about to fall. Harry teetered dangerously forward, then slightly back, then forward again before gravity picked up the slack, and as physics would dictate, the entity that was Harry Potter leaned a little too far forward, causing him to effectively lose his balance.  
  
Thank goodness the tall, black thing was in front of him, or else Harry would have painfully kissed the hard ground, rather than have fallen gently against the firm, oddly warm mass of dark solid.  
  
Being tired as he was, Harry found the pile of black to be quite comfortable; rather than retain his balance as quickly as one only could when sick, Harry chose to simply close his tired eyes, and sigh. He could hear a faint, steady beating sound underneath what could only have been cloth, and it was gently lulling him to sleep. So comfortable and warm. . .  
  
The black fabric spoke, causing Harry to feel something of a rumble course through the blackness on which his head lay.  
  
"Potter, what in the //hell// do you think you are doing?"  
  
The voice, obviously belonging to the individual comprised entirely of black clothing, shocked the fog right out of Harry's brain, like a sudden bolt of lightning. His eyes snapped open, and cold panic settled like lead in the pit of stomach. He very much did not want to draw his face back to look up at the man - not so much now because what was obviously the person's chest was comfortable, but because of Harry's pure fit of astonishment and embarrassment.  
  
Well, he looked up anyway.  
  
"Puh. . .Sna. . ." was about all Harry managed to stutter out, craning his neck to look certain doom in the eye, and also stepping back at the same time. This proved to be a rather unwise choice, as Harry still had not managed to grasp any sense of equilibrium.  
  
In other words, he fell flat on his back, arms akimbo. A dull //thud// resounded throughout the corridor as Harry's body impacted against the stone floor.  
  
Snape blinked, his face betraying a rare vision, that being the foreign emotion of surprise. It was quickly replaced, however, by an expression that frequented Snape's features more often than not - a cold sneer, accompanied by restrained irritation.  
  
"Whatever sort of prank you are pulling, boy, I'll have you know that it is not working, nor is it amusing," he said coolly, crossing his arms over his chest. Harry muttered something from his current residence of the floor, but it was far too muffled to be understood.  
  
"Well, Potter? What sort of excuse will your ridiculous, Gryffindor brain attempt to manufacture, hm?"  
  
Harry rubbed his eyes, blinking a few times. He looked up, Snape looked down, and Harry knew he was in deep, deep trouble if he didn't say something coherent, and fast.  
  
"I'm lost," he answered truthfully. Snape continued to stare at him; his eyes flickered for a moment, but from what, Harry was unsure of. In fact, he couldn't even be positive that his dark eyes //did// flicker, seeing as they currently looked like blurry, black jelly beans to him at the moment.  
  
"You're lost," Snape repeated. Harry nodded his head. "Potter, how can it be that you are lost in the school that has been your home for nearly seven years? Better yet, how can you be lost in a hallway that you've traveled down nearly //every day// for said seven years?"  
  
'Traveled down nearly every day?' Harry thought, confusion quickly setting in. No, that couldn't be possible, he didn't recognize anything in this corridor. . .well, maybe except for those doors, which sort of looked like the ones that led to the dungeons.  
  
". . .oh." The Potions master smirked.  
  
"'Oh' is quite correct, Mr. Potter."  
  
"It was 'cause I don't. . .have my glasses," Harry said weakly, scrubbing at his eyes once more and blinking, still feeling a little perplexed by the whole situation. God, why was it so damn //cold?//  
  
"I'm sure that excuse would make sense if I were drunk. Now, up." Harry sighed shakily as he propped himself up on his arms, able to feel himself tremble. Leaning forward, he managed to get up onto his knees without too much of a fuss, but completing the task of standing up seemed to be a feat that was slightly more elusive.  
  
Snape said something under his breath that Harry couldn't quite make out. Patience in dealing with children was not the older man's forte. Briefly, he wondered why the hell he was a teacher, remembered the answer, and concluded his train of thought by scowling at Harry.  
  
"Would you mind hurrying things along? It //is// rather late, and I can only chastise you so much before the novelty wears out for one night," Snape bit off, watching as Harry continued to struggle to get up. A few moments passed before he sighed, albeit less irritably as he could have.  
  
"Oh, fine," he mumbled, crouching down to Harry's level. Placing his arms under Harry's, Snape lifted the boy to his feet; however, considering Harry's general sense of luck that night, it was thought to be rather fitting that Snape's apparent helpfulness was too quick in its execution. As such, the boy found that his legs still weren't working quite right, and he couldn't help it when he collapsed once again against the chest of his Potions professor.  
  
Snape, at this point, started to figure that something truly //was// wrong at this point. Potter certainly wasn't the type to go around and make pranks - rather, that was the niche of those Weasley twins, gone but not forgotten from Hogwarts - and there didn't seem to be anyone else around to impress, or generally entertain. He was also fairly certain that Harry didn't act so.to put it lightly, deranged, when all by his lonesome.  
  
The younger man looked up at Snape rather pathetically. Severus made a small checklist in his mind - flushed skin, what looked to be a thin sheen of sweat, slightly glazed, unfocused eyes (although Harry always looked more or less glazed and unfocused in Potions class anyway, it seemed), and obvious difficulty concerning motor skills. It was either sickness or drugs. Drugs didn't seem too likely, but kids these days. . .  
  
Snape put his cool palm against Harry's forehead; the boy's skin positively radiated with heat, and certainly felt clammy. Yes, that certainly explained things.  
  
"For God's sake, Potter, it's only a fever," he sighed, moving Harry so that the boy's one arm was swung around his neck. Now standing beside each other, Snape helped walk Harry down the corridor, albeit slowly. This, in and of itself, served to only further confuse the sick young man.  
  
"Why are you helping me?" Harry quietly asked his professor, half walking, half stumbling down the hallway, feeling at once relieved and mortified by the fact that Snape had found him. Snape sighed.  
  
"Because it wouldn't do to have a student such as yourself crawling the floors at night. Someone could have ended up tripping over you and causing a real mess," he replied. Harry, expecting a response such as this, stayed silent, having nothing much to say.  
  
They continued down the hall in such a manner, until Harry realized that they were beginning to descend the stairs to the dungeons. Now, while Harry was certainly not on his best form, he knew that the school infirmary was //upstairs//, and generally not located in Snape's classroom. Snape noticed Harry's look of (increased) confusion.  
  
"No use disturbing Madame Pomfrey at this hour. I've a draught I can give you that should clear up your fever," Severus said, leading Harry down the stone steps. The green eyed boy blinked.  
  
Snape was. . .being nice? To //him//? Well, at least relatively so. There was no possible explanation for this, save perhaps Hell freezing over. And it just might have. Maybe Satan liked ice hockey.  
  
"I shall have you know, Potter, that I will be deducting five points from Gryffindor for your disregard of curfew, and an additional five points for bothering me so late at night."  
  
Ah. So Satan didn't like ice hockey after all.  
  
It didn't take long for Snape to find the draught he was looking for once they arrived in his classroom, despite the fact that it involved some serious rummaging through the various shelves. Snape took down a small, purple vial, which fit quite neatly into his hand; he looked at the Boy Who Lived over his shoulder, who was currently leaning against one of the student desks for support. The head of Slytherin "wingardium leviosa"-d the bottle to Harry, who easily caught the potion that lazily floated to him. Snape, seeing that Harry had managed to receive the draught without too much of a hassle, turned his back to the boy, casting a spell to re- arrange the various potions and concoctions on the shelves to accommodate for the draught he took down.  
  
"It's rather potent," Snape began to explain, "so take it once you've arrived back at - "  
  
However, dear Harry was only concerned with getting rid of that horrible, sick feeling. Halfway through what Snape was saying, he had quickly uncorked it and downed the contents. It was grape flavoured, which Harry found to be actually quite amusing.  
  
Of course, the stuff also happened to have the profound effect like that of a boxer punching an old lady. Within seconds, Harry's eyelids suddenly felt like a metric ton apiece, and he could swear that somebody had just stuffed his head full of cotton, as if he were some sort of plush toy. He fell back against the desk, and consequentially, off of it, taking a cauldron with him; Harry fell to the floor in a very deep sleep, and it didn't look as if he were going to wake anytime soon.  
  
Snape swore, but thankfully, Harry couldn't hear him.  
  
///  
  
And so, that was the first chapter of, ah, this. I hope you like it so far - please review, because reviews are like oxygen, reviews are a many splendored thing, reviews lift us up where we belong, all we need are reviews! =D  
  
. . .mmm, Ewan McGregor.  
  
Yes. Tell me what you think. ^_^  
  
~Chibikat 


	2. Waxing Depressed and Possibly His Legs

*Disclaimer:* Were Harry Potter and his gang of friends and varying enemies with which he shares intense sexual tension with owned by me, then a lot of the names used would be easily pronounced at first glance by us poor, disadvantaged North Americans.  
  
Sirius: Some call me. . . . . .Tim?  
  
*Rating:* It's still a nice, cool, tall glass of PG-13 goodness, due to swearing, thoughts of cross-dressing, and mentioning Jesus, Buddhists, atheists, and lepers in the same paragraph.  
  
*Author's Notes:* . . .I really can't explain why I've been writing this so quickly, but I shant look a gift horse in the mouth. Because frankly, it'd smell. Smell real bad. And anyhow, my writer's block concerning Pandora still persists. v_v So I give you this instead. =D Go me.  
  
Special thanks to everyone who's reviewed so far, and especially to Naomi, who's encouraged me with this story and has been absolutely wonderful for pointing out my horribly, horribly obvious mistakes. You rock, Naomi. You rock.  
  
Thanks also to Tania. Why? Just because you're you. Degrassi all the way.  
  
La. I won't keep you any further, so here's the story. Enjoy, you happy people you.  
  
~*//*~  
  
Finality  
  
~*//*~  
  
It was the best sleep that Harry Potter had had in months.  
  
He felt refreshed - almost light, if you will - as slumber slowly began to fade from his being. It seemed to happen in steps; he first came out of a pleasant dream that he couldn't remember for the life of him, but had left him feeling warmly happy. He was aware that he was no longer asleep, but he still felt a little too comfortable and snug to open his eyes. It was nice, lying down on such soft cushions; the air itself felt a little too cold for his comfort zone, but that didn't matter to Harry at the moment. He was far too relaxed. . .  
  
At that moment, suddenly Harry felt something extremely cold and extremely wet splash all over his face. Gasping in shock, Harry bolted upright, his eyes wide with surprise; water dripped from his now moist bangs into his blurry eyes, running down his chin and neck, dampening his t-shirt. His state of near relaxation completely ruined, miserable tetchiness swamped Harry's being just as that mysterious, cold liquid had. It made him want to swear, just a little bit; so, giving into sweet impulse, he did.  
  
"What the hell-?!"  
  
"Five points from Gryffindor for swearing so loudly. In front of a teacher, no less."  
  
All too well, Harry knew that voice. Swallowing dryly, he looked slowly up, able to make out the man standing next to his prone form through soggy bangs - black hair, black clothes, black expression. . .yes, it was exactly the person to whom that voice belonged to. Harry's eyes widened a little bit.  
  
Professor Snape stood above Harry, holding a now-empty goblet, which happened to be dripping water over one side of it. He smirked.  
  
"Oh, good. You're awake," he said, placing the goblet down on a nearby end table. Harry watched - half in confusion, half in fear - as Snape crossed the room to a chair in the corner, picking up a heap of black and grey material, and what just could have been a smattering of red and gold.  
  
"P-Professor Snape?" Harry asked, as if to inquire if the man now walking towards him was indeed his surly Potions instructor, and if he would be brutally murdered now or in about fifteen minutes after a nice cup of coffee. The older man answered by tossing the pile of clothes at Harry, who caught it against his chest purely out of instinct. He swallowed again, turning his gaze down to the bundle in his hands. Harry held up one item of what seemed to be clothing - in fact, it was a robe emblazoned with the trademarked Gryffindor crest.  
  
It was his school robe. And, now that he was pawing through the rest of the clothes sitting on his lap, he found his school pants, shirt, vest, tie. . .surprised again and so early in the morning to boot, Harry blinked, outright staring at Snape as the man put on his own billowing, black robe over his clothes.  
  
"I had a house elf fetch them from your dorm earlier this morning," Snape informed Harry, answering the boy's silent question. This, of course, also prompted Harry into thinking - if he wasn't up in the Gryffindor rooms, then where //was// he? The boy took in as much of the surroundings as he could with his less than perfect vision, sitting up a little more, wiping back his damp bangs, effectively slicking his hair back. For a moment, Harry realized his hair must look quite a bit like Malfoy's in its current state, but didn't quite care for the time being.  
  
Now that most of his bangs were out of his face, Harry had a better view of the place that he was currently in. The room itself looked as if it were carved from a hunk of rock. Though it was a very well-kept and oddly attractive sort of rock, apparently; everything in the room was neat and orderly and had at least a touch of anal retentiveness to it, from the clean fireplace to the rows upon rows of bookshelves upon which thick, heavy tomes sat. The air felt colder now, what with Harry being damp and chilly. The torches seemed to do absolutely nothing to help that, either.  
  
"Where am I?" he asked tentatively. Snape looked at the boy over his shoulder, doing up the last button on his robe; the large, black negligee certainly leant quite a bit to the man's intimidation factor, however Severus Snape could look intimidating in most anything.  
  
"On a couch, you stupid boy, where do you think?" Harry narrowed his eyes.  
  
"I know I'm on a couch! I meant what //room// am I in?"  
  
"Demanding whelp. You are in my quarters."  
  
Harry blinked.  
  
". . . //your// quarters?" If Snape were not above such juvenile behaviour, he would've rolled his eyes.  
  
"Yes, Potter, //my// quarters. God forbid I have a place where I live and sleep. Contrary to popular belief, I //am// human."  
  
Harry completely tuned out his professor's sarcasm for the moment, as Harry was somewhat distracted by the cold knot twisting merrily away in his stomach. He had spent the night in Snape's room. He had spent the night in his //professor's room.//  
  
'No, not his room, there's no bed in here,' his mind reasoned, but the boy still felt quite flustered for some rather elusive cause. He stared, wide eyed, at everything that surrounded him, doing his very best to keep his eyes off the form of his Potions professor - out of sight, out of mind, right? Right?  
  
Harry valiantly fought down the blush forming on his face. He, Harry Potter, had just spent the night in a teacher's rooms - to make things worse, Harry happened to deeply loathe this particular slimy, disgusting git of a professor. The cherry on top? He was the head of Slytherin house - the proverbial Joker to Gryffindor's Batman. Harry felt disgusted with himself.  
  
'It was this, or stay passed out on the dungeon floor,' his mind chirped up, trying to once again to gently nudge reason into the boy's psyche, in order to reach a more calm, rational plane of existence. It failed to do much to alleviate the utter. . . //weirdness// of the whole situation. Harry shifted his position slightly, his hands fisting against the clothes settled in his lap. What was he supposed to do now? . . .was it even //legal// for him to have slept in (well, near) the same room as his professor? Wasn't that barely above pedophilia?  
  
"Here," Snape said flatly, shoving something in Harry's face. The younger man, startled out of his train of thoughts, jumped a little, and blinked in surprise. He looked slightly down - in Snape's hands were his glasses. Slowly, Harry took them, sliding them easily onto his face, looking warily at the man before him.  
  
His vision now of the nice, 20/20 sort, Harry found that, now that everything he saw was coming into perspective, so were his thoughts. Okay. So he was sick, and he just happened to end up sleeping on a couch. It really wasn't //that// big of a deal; in all likelihood, things could have turned out to be much, much worse. In fact, Harry was rather lucky that Snape had found him. That's right, look on the bright side of things.  
  
"By the way," Snape drawled, "I will have you know that I am deducting twenty-five points from Gryffindor on account of you sneaking about Hogwarts at night, and another twenty-five points for not following my instructions and waiting until you were back in your dorm before drinking the potion." He turned to face Harry, his lips twisted in a small, barely noticeable smirk. "And detention for bothering me at such a late hour."  
  
Well, damn. Maybe he would've been better off if he'd just passed out in the corridor. Or been left to die in the Sahara Desert by a tribe of irate Mongolians. Or been dumped somewhere in the United States, god forbid.  
  
Trying not to let the abysmal amount of House Points that Gryffindor now had bother him, Harry bit his lip, doing his best not to let utter disappointment show. He failed miserably, but then again, Harry never quite developed the talent of hiding all of his emotions.  
  
"Don't look so downtrodden, Potter. You're getting off light," Snape said. Harry snorted.  
  
"Oh yeah? I wouldn't call //fifty// points being taken away from my House //light//."  
  
"And detention," Snape reminded the boy, something akin to sadistic pleasure in his voice. Harry scowled.  
  
"And detention," the boy muttered, crossing his arms defiantly over his chest, and feeling ridiculous all the while, mostly because he was still laying down on a couch, wearing only his t-shirt and boxers. Snape, standing tall, wearing all his layers of black robes and a surly expression, was the epitome of intimidation. A skinny seventeen-year-old in plaid boxers was most certainly not.  
  
Snape stared down at the boy on the couch. The unease was nigh palpable; when Harry realized that his professor was not going to stop staring at him anytime soon, he squirmed uncomfortably, shifting his own gaze down to the floor.  
  
"Well. //I// would call it light," the older man stated simply.  
  
And that, as they said, was that.  
  
~*~  
  
Harry quickly showered in the surprisingly lavish bathroom that was adjacent to the room with the couch; unsurprisingly, however, he found no shampoo in the immediate vicinity of the shower. Harry did a mental shrug - he supposed it made sense, Snape's hair was rather. . .well, lank was putting it nicely.  
  
It took only a few minutes for Harry to get himself adequately soapy and rinsed; shutting the taps off, The Boy Who Refused To Die stepped out of the showers, looking at the green sinks and green-framed mirrors whilst wrapping a green towel around his not-green hips. Yes sir, if Harry needed any more of a reminder that he was in a Slytherin bathroom, he'd just have to take in the colour schemes, and the drawer handles that bore snakes carved into an 'S' shape. It was actually rather neat, in a creepy and unwelcoming sort of way. If he'd ever worked at Ikea, Harry was sure he'd have a field day.  
  
Drying his body off and scrubbing the dampness as best he could out of his hair, Harry started to pull on his school clothes; thank goodness, the boy thought, that these certain articles of clothing that the house elf Snape had sent up to get were clean. Call him a freak, but ever since coming to Hogwarts, Harry had made sure to indulge in the delicacy of clean, well- fitting clothes after having to put up with everything that he was forced to wear from Dudley's pile of hand-me-downs. Back on ye olde Privet Drive, the general rule was if Harry himself didn't wash his clothes (and the rest of the Dursley's, for that fact), he'd be forced to sit in extremely wrinkled, (as the days wore on) smelly and, in Harry's opinion, poorly designed garments. Old, oversized Nike shirts that were made by children in Thailand didn't have a very long life, Harry found.  
  
If Harry Potter could possibly get around feeling such a way in clothes ever again, he'd do what he'd have to. Ron once told him that he'd make a very good French maid. Of course, this promptly brought up the image of Harry wearing a black, poofy miniskirt that was the uniform of many a dirty video and magazine, so the subject was never touched upon again. Sadly, though, Harry had long ago realized that his 'lean' (nice word for 'girly') legs would actually look rather good in a skirt. That is, if he shaved them, which he'd never do, because man-stubble on one's legs was generally not a very attractive sight. He'd lean more towards waxing.  
  
Not that he had tried anything of the sort. Not as if he //could// try anything of the sort. He hadn't the gumption to go into a store and buy a waxing kit, and he had no desire to hack away at his legs with a razor designed for the face. Garment-wise, he'd never touch his Aunt Petunia's clothes for fear of catching some sort of disease that would turn him bitchy, and he'd have to be pretty low to sneak around and steal a girl's clothes. He wasn't advanced enough to simply bring clothes into existence of his own free will - well, not any //good// clothes, anyway. The best he ever got was a pair of ill-fitting rainbow legwarmers, and they disturbed him enough as it was. And so, it was because of all said reasons, and more, that Harry Potter never got to experience the art of drag.  
  
For a moment, Harry stopped dressing himself, and looked in the mirror. Because there was absolutely no way in hell that he, The Boy Who Lived, savior of the Wizarding World and all around good guy, was contemplating body hair removal and cross-dressing in the bathroom of his sinister, evil, greasy, shampoo-less Potions professor.  
  
Right?  
  
. . .fuck but the boy needed coffee, and fast.  
  
Now fully dressed (in //boy's// clothes, of course), Harry stepped out of the bathroom, running his fingers through his consistently unruly hair once more. With his glasses neatly perched on his nose, Harry felt a sense of control returning to him; he was clean, dressed, able to see, and feeling much more to be in tip-top shape. He looked at Snape, who glared at him once, and all confidence deflated, as if he were some sort of cheaply made party balloon.  
  
"Well. You look a little less like you just crawled out of the depths of Hell, Mr. Potter. Congratulations," the Potions master said smoothly. Harry bit down on his lip to keep himself from replying with a scathing, albeit admittedly less witty retort, lest he cost his poor House more precious, precious points. Rather, he walked past Snape, taking a deep breath, making his way towards where the large door was.  
  
"Going somewhere, Mr. Potter?" Always with the 'Mr. Potter'. Jesus Christ, all the man needed was a snazzy black suit, and he'd be able to pass off as one of those agents from that weird-ass movie about computers and kung-fu and people wearing tight, shiny leather. That movie confused the heck out of Harry. Better than Dudley, who thought it was another installment of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure. Of course, Harry also didn't know how to use a computer beyond the occasional game of Solitaire, so that certainly didn't help the fact, either.  
  
Be that as it may.  
  
"I was going to the Great Hall, sir. Breakfast is about to start, and my friends will be wondering where I am," Harry said, moving to open the grand old door before him. Snape nodded his head.  
  
"Most important meal of the day, and frankly, you need all the help you can get. Go on then, Potter." Harry silently bristled, and Snape silently sneered. The silence continued as Harry opened the door, which lead him into the large classroom which Potions took place in; tension and unease followed Harry out the door like some sort of retarded puppy, trailing about him no matter what the boy tried to do.  
  
'Great. All those points taken away, //and// detention with the surliest bastard this side of Europe, and all because I got sick,' he thought as he slowly opened the door leading him out of the Potions classroom. Slowly, carefully, Harry barely poked his nose out to see around the corner, to ascertain whether or not his classmates were out and about, and whether or not he would be seen. He didn't want anyone getting the wrong idea; after all, Harry Potter, sneaking out of a //teacher's// rooms in the morning?  
  
. . .he didn't want to think what that wrong idea, exactly, would be. Better not to dwell on such disturbing things.  
  
Noting that the halls were satisfactorily empty, he ran from the doorway, slamming it shut behind him. Breathing quickly, his eyes darting this way and that, Harry found that yes, he was still quite alone.  
  
'Think nonchalant. Think calm.' He paused, took in a deep breath, and began to whistle as nonchalantly and calmly as he possibly could. A few passing Hufflepuffs stared at him oddly, but since nobody cared about what the Hufflepuffs thought, neither did Harry.  
  
~*~  
  
"All I'm saying, Hermione, is that if Jesus and Harry got into a fight, I think Harry would win," Ron explained, eating another forkful of scrambled eggs. Hermione refused to touch the stuff, citing it looked like cat brains. She said it had something to do with a traumatic childhood experience; frankly, Ron didn't really know, he wasn't paying attention at the time.  
  
"Harry and Jesus would never get into a fight, you idiot," Hermione said, sounding rather exasperated already. "Aside from the fact that Jesus lived two thousand years ago, and in the Middle East, no less, why would Jesus and Harry fight in the first place?"  
  
"I don't know, maybe Harry's a Buddhist." Another mouthful of eggs, followed by a hearty glass of 2% milk.  
  
"Harry is //not// a Buddhist, Ron. And that being as it may, Jesus would not try to beat Buddhists up," Hermione countered, gingerly cutting into a slice of cantaloupe.  
  
"Okay, what if Harry's atheist?"  
  
"What //if// Harry's atheist?"  
  
"Surely Jesus would want to beat an atheist up. Especially if Harry Potter were an atheist, what with him having so much sway over the masses, you and I included." Ron dunked a sizeable hash-brown into a small container of ketchup, and promptly ate it. "And come on, Jesus would suck in a fight. I mean, really, what would Jesus do?"  
  
"They make bracelets of that, you know," Hermione commented idly, perusing her copy of the Daily Prophet. Apparently, rainbow coloured tube socks were in again, according to the article she was reading.  
  
"Seriously though, what would he do, turn water into wine and try to get Harry drunk off his arse? And God forbid if a leper happened by. . ."  
  
"Ron, are you going to have a point any time soon?" Ron rolled his eyes, further scrambling his eggs with some newly added ketchup.  
  
"My point is that Jesus would lose in a fight with Harry. And don't you try to tell me that they'd just end up coming to a peaceful solution, because that's as good as forfeiting in my books, and that would be just ridiculous!"  
  
"Just like this conversation."  
  
"Just like this conversation, exactly! . . .hey."  
  
"Stating the facts, is all. Speaking of which, your anti-Christ is right over there," Hermione said, pointing her fork over to where Harry was making his not-so-grand entrance into the aptly named Great Hall. He made his way over to the Gryffindor table, taking his usual spot beside Ron.  
  
"Sorry I'm late," he muttered, doing his best to look cheerfully nonchalant and calm, his not-so-obviously nonchalant and calm whistling having been stopped quite a while ago once Harry realized he couldn't carry a tune to save his life and the lives of everyone he ever loved or cherished.  
  
"Blimey, where were you? I woke up this morning, and you weren't in your bed. I slipped on that compress of yours too, could've broken my neck and died," Ron stated, finishing off the rest of the eggs on his plate, beginning to dig into the copious amount of French toast. Harry smiled apologetically at the two of them.  
  
"I really wasn't feeling at all well last night, so I went to Madame Pomfrey's. She gave me something for my fever and my sickness, and I ended up staying the night. Sorry if I worried you, mate," Harry said smoothly, appalled by his own ability to lie so easily. No wonder the Sorting Hat said he'd do well in Slytherin. Except, of course, for the fact that he rarely looked good in green.  
  
Ron and Hermione seemed rather accepting of this answer.  
  
"Well I'm glad you're feeling better, Harry. You really weren't looking very good last night," Hermione said, a light, almost chiding tone to her voice. Once again, Harry smiled a little sheepishly.  
  
"I don't get sick very often, and when I do, I suppose it just hits me that much harder," he reasoned, beginning to scoop some fruit onto his plate. After all the shenanigans of the night before and this morning, Harry didn't feel like eating anything too heavy. Melon worked just fine for him.  
  
"Ahh, I know what you mean. Fred and George, whenever they got sick - you know, for real, not when they were faking it or eating those joke pills of theirs - they'd look like someone came and just hit them with a sack of bricks. They were right out of it, they were," Ron said, reaching across the table to reach the poached eggs, now that the scrambled once he'd inhaled were being safely digested in his stomach. Harry nodded his head, and 'mm'd in agreement.  
  
They ate in silence for a moment.  
  
"So Harry, if you and Jesus got into a fight, do you think you or Christ would win?" Ron asked him. Harry blinked.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Wot? It's a fair question. I mean, he can walk on water, granted, but you've defeated You-Know-Who annually for the past six years or so. That has to count for something."  
  
Harry looked to Hermione, silently begging for an answer as to why Ron was badgering him about such a thing. Hermione shrugged.  
  
"Don't look at me, Harry. Ron's been bugging me all morning about this." She turned the page in her newspaper to read the 'Dear Andy' column, which was written by the sauciest gay wizard around. Harry looked at his best (male) friend.  
  
"Um, well, I think Jesus and I would. . .uh, peacefully resolve our differences, and try to help mankind?" Ron stared at him.  
  
"That's it?"  
  
"Well, yes, what do you want from me?"  
  
"Aw c'mon Harry, are you //sure// you two wouldn't fight? At all? You wouldn't even punch him?"  
  
"I would never punch Jesus!"  
  
"Would you slap him?" Harry grit his teeth, feeling himself become annoyed beyond most all measure.  
  
"Ron!" he exclaimed, successfully grabbing the attention of a few of the nearby Gryffindors, "I'm positive that I would not get into a fight with Jesus Christ!" The red haired boy sighed.  
  
"Fine, fair enough, fair enough."  
  
They all ate peacefully after that; once in a while, Harry would glance over to the teacher's table with a bit of loathing at the only professor whose entire wardrobe consisted only of the colour black. Said professor never looked back at him.  
  
Slimy git, that man.  
  
Ron piped up once more.  
  
"What about Moses? That guy was insane."  
  
Harry hit him over the head with a conveniently placed banana, which effectively stopped Ron from attempting to find out if Harry would win in a battle royale with assorted characters from the Bible.  
  
~*~  
  
The rest of the day had gone fairly well, all things considered; everyone had fun transfiguring inanimate objects into various farm animals in Professor McGonagall's class. Ron managed to successfully transfigure his empty, glass bottle into a surprisingly well-behaved llama on his first try, which had earned Gryffindor some much-needed points. Draco Malfoy had only gotten his rubber ball to transform into a ferret, which made Harry and most of the other Gryffindors laugh at the sheer irony of it all.  
  
Charms was rather routine - they practiced a few levitating spells, each increasing in its complexity, in order to hold airborne heavier and much more complicated objects, such as people. Hermione made Harry himself float in the air for a good minute or do, and lazily "swimming" about above other people's heads did wonders in terms of relaxation.  
  
In Potions, Neville made his brew explode. Nothing new. Harry did all he could //not// to concentrate in that class, since he had a detention with Sir Sneer-A-Lot that very night. Harry found that, as long as he kept his mouth shut, didn't look up at him, and basically kept to himself, Snape didn't bother him overmuch.  
  
Of course, the man could always be saving up his sarcastic insults for the night to come. It was a distinct possibility, petty bastard that he was; Harry still hadn't forgotten about those abandoned Occlumency lessons. However, neither did Snape, as it appeared, and that didn't help relations between the two of them.  
  
Harry had realized that, yes, perhaps taking a stroll through someone's very private and embarrassing thoughts was a no-no, but he was just curious. For the love of butterbeer, Snape had left that Pensieve right on his desk, all swirly and shiny, and how could someone like Harry resist? He and his friends hadn't solved the riddles of the Philosopher's Stone by just standing around, ignoring all those distractions that had tempted them so; such a healthy curiosity (and insane amounts of luck, Harry would also acknowledge this) had allowed he, Hermione and Ron to defeat that weird Professor Quirrel /Voldemort hybrid thing, and safely retrieve the precious stone. That had turned out quite well, after all.  
  
So reasonably, logically, Snape should have //known// Harry was going to sneak at least a tiny peek at those thoughts, sitting out in the open. For Snape to have reacted the way he did was absolutely ridiculous and uncalled for.  
  
Maybe called for, but just a little bit. Harry got the feeling (well. It radiated off the man in waves) that his Potions professor was an intensely private person, and yes, Harry himself //would// be rather pissed off if someone had wandered in, uninvited, to his memories. But ending those Occlumency lessons? That was taking things a step too far. Harry had //needed// those lessons, in order to keep Voldemort's images out of his mind.  
  
Like the one that sent Harry off to the Department of Mysteries.  
  
Like the one that got Sirius killed.  
  
Harry hadn't noticed that he was gripping the monkshood flask so hard that the glass cracked. Sucked out of his thoughts like a vacuum cleaner set on high, Harry carefully unlocked his fist from around the vial as he felt something jab into him; the flask itself was, indeed, cracked in the middle, and the top of it was right crushed. The source of the stinging pain in Harry's finger was found as he spotted a small, but jagged piece of glass sticking out of his skin. Luckily, there was very little monkshood left in the now-broken vial, and none of the stuff had escaped.  
  
Cautiously, the bespectacled boy placed the vial back in its holder, and proceeded to pluck the offending shard of glass from his finger. Blood the colour of anger streamed out the moment he did - apparently, that little shard had dug inside him further than he thought. The boy gingerly sucked on the tip of his finger, wiping off whatever excess blood that managed to escape his lips on his black robe. He made a mental note to clean it later.  
  
'You're doing it again,' what was most likely Harry's optimistic side chided, slowly forcing him back to focusing on the potion at hand. He quietly uttered a repairing spell, and watched with passing interest as the monkshood glass sealed itself back up, the spider web pattern of the cracks now ceasing to be.  
  
He silently expelled his breath. Ever since fifth year, things had felt - had //been// - different. Everything seemed so uninspired, so gratingly washed. Were life a palette of colours, it would be all grays and neutrals; from the walls of Hogwarts to the walls of the house on Privet Drive, everything was all terribly reminiscent of one another. There was nothing new; at least, nothing new worth noting. Not since Sirius. . .  
  
God, Harry missed him. They'd known each other for such a short period of time, but Harry could see so much of himself in his godfather - the bravery, the impudence, the love of adventure. But what warmed Harry's heart so much was that when he saw Sirius, he didn't see a man embittered by years of wrongful imprisonment. No. He saw a good, kind man that really and truly cared for him.  
  
It made Harry want to be sick again. It all did.  
  
He glanced up; Snape was checking on a few of the student's potions, making notes and giving criticism where the man deemed it was needed. Quickly, Harry looked back down, feeling his cheeks flush with anger; how dare that man act as if everything was normal, as if nothing had ever changed. How dare all of them. . .!  
  
'Ah-ah-ah. Harry, simmer.' The nice, quiet part of himself, chastising him again. Dammit dammit dammit, why did he have to have such a conscience? Granted, exploding in hormonal/righteous/angsty rage in the middle of class with what, to the unknowing student, appeared to be no provocation at all, would do nothing to help the boy's slightly shaky reputation. Hell, he couldn't even blame it on Malfoy, the sneaky blond hadn't uttered a single word to him all class.  
  
Harry glanced over to where Draco was working just a few seats away from him. Indeed, the Slytherin appeared to be studiously working on his potion; Harry watched him carefully measure different amounts of ginger root and boggart's blood, and pour them with the same amount of care into his cauldron. Malfoy's face was set, his mind obviously focused on nothing else. His potion was certainly farther along than Harry's and, of course, looked as if it would turn out nearly perfect.  
  
Draco Malfoy. Annoying, nosy prat who loved to make fun of him and his friends, and generally make life for nice people a living hell - not to mention he had more money in his pocket than most respectable people would have in a year. And his father, that horrible, God-awful man. . .Lucius Malfoy was probably pleased with how the miniature version of himself was coming along. Entire family was made up of Death Eaters and murderers.  
  
Malfoy bit his lip in thought as he watched his potion change colour from deep purple to a much lighter shade, almost like lilac. "You're dead, Potter," that boy had said, and it felt like eons since he had. Draco didn't even really taunt him much anymore; right after his father's imprisonment in Azkaban, all Malfoy would do was send venomous glances his way. Sometimes he'd come out with the occasional death threat, but frankly, it didn't phase Harry. And now, there that same boy was, the entire world about him tuned out from his personal existence.  
  
Harry glanced down to where his wand was; just as quickly, his eyes flickered over to Malfoy's brewing potion.  
  
A wicked smile crossed Harry's face.  
  
It would be so easy to jinx that damnably perfect potion of his; Snape wasn't looking over in Harry's direction, and was making his way over to where Neville was still struggling with his own concoction. Certainly that would prove an adequate distraction for the teacher. Draco himself was far too immersed in his work to be able to notice anything before it was too late.  
  
Quickly, Harry glanced all about himself; nope, nobody's eyes were on him at the time being. No one would suspect a thing - except possibly Snape and Draco, but only because they both bore grudges against his good self as it was, those Slytherin pricks. Harry felt his hand close around the familiar feeling hilt of his wand, an instrument that had gotten him both into and out of quite a bit of trouble over the past several years.  
  
He could hear Hermione in the back of his head, telling him that what he was about to do was childish and immature, and wouldn't result in anything productive. Of course, he also heard the encouraging voice of Ron, telling him that Draco had it coming because he was a rich little brat who used far too much hair gel to be healthy. Both of them brought up some rather valid points. On one hand, Harry would most likely find himself in more hot water with Professor Snape (why did that sound so dirty in his head?), but on the other, far more impulsive hand, Draco //did// use an annoying amount of hair gel. That had irked Harry right from the start - who, in all the world, needed to slick their hair back to such a severe degree? What was he trying to prove? Harry wondered if someone could break a steel rod over Malfoy's hard shell of a hairstyle. He made a mental note to himself to try it sometime in the near future.  
  
The weight of Harry's wand pressed insistently against his palm. He knew that ruining one potion wasn't really a great form of vengeance, but it was a start; after all, Malfoy simply had to pay for everything terrible he'd said and done to he and his friends. For every time he called Hermione a Mudblood, or started up a chorus of "Weasley Is Our King", or. . .or worse, just out and out //ignored// Harry, Draco Malfoy had to pay.  
  
It's something Sirius would have done. In fact, it was something along the lines of what Sirius //did// do, but to the man conducting the Potions class. That emboldened Harry - he was just picking up where his Godfather left off. The best way to truly keep someone alive in spirit was to remember them, to think of them; what better way to honour Sirius' memory than doing what he would have done in such a situation? It was Harry's duty: not only as a godson, but as a member of the Potter family, the closest friends of Sirius Black.  
  
Harry carefully aimed his wand at Draco's cauldron, making sure to keep it hidden. What kind of magic spell to use? Slime or snails, fire or ice, something bubbling or something exploding? Exploding was always fun, seemed to create quite the scene; or perhaps he could transfigure Draco's potion into hundreds of small spiders? No, wait, Ron was terrified of spiders, and he was in the same room as the lot of them, so that was right out.  
  
After a brief moment's thought, Harry decided to go with the exploding. After all, the potion would most likely fling itself all over Draco, and make a mess of him - not to mention, he'd fail this particular assignment. Magically economic and effective, really.  
  
Harry couldn't help the tiny smirk that twisted his lips slightly upward. The look on Malfoy's face was going to be absolutely //priceless// when his potion spontaneously bursted all over him. His voice was below even a whisper as he mouthed the words.  
  
"Rageus ex-"  
  
The bell rang.  
  
Harry stood a bit dumbly, watching as Draco bottled up his potion and took it to Professor Snape's desk, to have it marked and be given an exceedingly satisfactory grade. The others in the class did much the same, proceeding to Snape's desk, placing the various vials and bottles before the man sitting there, and quickly hightailing it out of the classroom. The green eyed boy blinked a few times, and looked at his own, rather incomplete potion; for the past half hour, he'd been so distracted by his own thoughts, and by the prospect of jinxing Malfoy's potion, that he'd completely forgotten that he had his own assignment to complete.  
  
Well fuck.  
  
Mentally, Harry profusely apologized to the spirit of Sirius Black, wherever he was, for not being quick enough to carry out his practical joke. He couldn't even do //that// properly.  
  
Harry trudged up to Snape's desk, unceremoniously presenting the container, which held his less-than-finished brew inside to him on the smooth, wood surface. Harry shoved it past a couple other potions, clinking the glass together. Oddly enough, the Potions master said nothing to this.  
  
"Do not forget your detention tonight at six o'clock, Potter," he rather said, with the air of a man who probably gave a damn some ten minutes ago, but was frankly too tired to muster the energy to express such a thing. Harry didn't need reminding of his prison sentence for the night.  
  
"Yes, sir," the boy muttered under his breath, turning quickly to go, grabbing his things and getting himself out of the dungeons as fast as he could go without looking like a complete and total idiot, because that was certainly how he felt.  
  
~*~  
  
Dinner was an obscurely quiet affair. Hermione had picked up on Harry's intense Aura of All-Consuming Doom and, after a few attempts at stillborn conversation, so had Ron. The three of them at their aptly named prime rib in silence, though for all the taste such a dish had, it all felt like ash in Harry's mouth.  
  
Why did everything have to go wrong for him? Did whatever cosmic entity that controlled his life get off on the boy's misery? He wouldn't be terribly surprised if that were the case - that his Guardian Angel, or whatever was up there, was a sadist. Fucking higher plane of existence and its horrible sense of humour. . .  
  
Harry glanced at his watch. Five-thirty. Half an hour to his detention, didn't //that// beat all? He glared down at his mashed potatoes, which obviously did not glare back at him. The boy further mashed the potatoes, nearly puréeing them with his fork, imagining Snape's face in place of the food. Stabbity stab stab.  
  
Both Ron and Hermione were more than a little disconcerted about this. Hermione, being the smart one of the trio, nudged Ron to say something. Ron blinked, looked at Harry, whose current gaze could whither a hothouse plant, then looked back at Hermione, feeling rather helpless. She, in turn, gave Ron the sternest look she could muster, which could make said hothouse plant spontaneously combust.  
  
Ron sighed in defeat.  
  
"So, ah, Harry, what's the matter?"  
  
Harry didn't even bother to look up. "Nothing."  
  
"Nothing, eh? Then I'd hate to see you when you're royally pissed off," Ron retorted, unable to suppress his natural smile. This time, Harry did look up; the glare he shot at the Weasley boy made quick work of dissolving his smirk. Ron blinked, then shook his head.  
  
"Touchy. What, is it that time of the month or something?" Harry was about to respond by throwing a good-sized peach at Ron's freckled face, but the sound of Hermione's soft giggling quickly put a stop to it. With a great sigh, Harry found himself sport a small, almost shy grin of his own.  
  
"No, Ron, I obviously don't suffer from PMS," the black haired boy said, wiping the tired bitterness from his eyes.  
  
"That's good to hear, 'cause frankly it'd just be weird if you did. Still haven't explained what's eating you, though." Ron stated as he helped himself to another slice of dead cow smothered in gravy. The Golden Boy of Gryffindor leaned back a little, taking a moment to pluck the glasses from his face, examining them by holding them up to the light. Everything about him was blurred, save for the distorted image of the enchanted ceiling he beheld through the lenses he suspended above him. It was a weird sensation.  
  
"Well," he began, bringing his glasses down to clean them on his robe, "I've got a detention tonight, for starters."  
  
"Detention's only for a few hours though, right?" Hermione said, smiling a little, doing her best to sound as convincing as she could. Harry replaced his glasses on the bridge of his nose.  
  
"It's a detention with Snape." Hermione and Ron both winced at the same time.  
  
"Ouch. That's enough to make anyone depressed. Sorry, mate," Ron said sincerely, mourning for Harry's loss of freedom and happiness, if but for one night. In turn, Harry nodded, doing his best to accept both Ron's condolences and his fate. Hermione furrowed his eyebrows.  
  
"But why did he give you detention, Harry? You didn't do anything wrong in class today," she pointed out. The Boy Who Lived froze for a moment, his eyes widening just a tiny bit. What, was he supposed to tell his friends that he had spent the night in Snape's rooms? That he'd used the man's //shower//? That he was //naked// in Snape's //shower//? No. No way in hell.  
  
"Since when has he needed a reason to hate me?" Harry countered. He silently congratulated himself once again for his smoothness, but also berated himself for, yet again that day, lying to his friends. But it was just a little white lie to preserve his Gryffindor manliness; no harm, no foul. Hermione sighed, shaking her head.  
  
"That's so unfair that he picks on you like that, Harry. Have you ever considered going to Dumbledore about it?" Ron nearly spit out his half- chewed prime rib.  
  
"Go to Dumbledore about it? Go to //Dumbledore// about it?! Hermione, honestly! You obviously have no understanding of a man's honour!" The girl raised one eyebrow.  
  
"Considering that I'm not a man?"  
  
"Well when was the last time you shaved your legs?"  
  
And it turned out that same, good-sized peach Harry had considered chucking at Ron was truly destined to forcefully meet the redhead's face.  
  
"What was //that// for?" he whined, holding the nose Ron was absolutely positive was going to start bleeding at any moment. Hermione shot a withering glare at Ron.  
  
"If you have to ask me, then-"  
  
"-then you aren't going to tell me, I know, I've heard that answer a thousand times! You're smart, haven't you figured out that I //have to ask//?! Bloody hell woman, right at my nose. . ." The woman in question merely grit her teeth, telling Ron to at least transfigure his empty goblet into an ice pack, if only to shut his whining up for a moment.  
  
Harry suddenly found himself thanking the gods above that he was cursing not too long ago for giving his friends the wonderful distraction of each other as he snuck off for a moment of "quiet time" before he had to be in the Potions class to serve his detention.  
  
~*~  
  
In another part of the castle, Hogwart's oldest and wisest living sat down at his desk, and forced his mind to mull over the grim news he had just received.  
  
~*//*~  
  
. . .please forgive me for the cliffhanger, but this chapter was getting long as it is, and chapters that are far too long are just as bad as chapters that are far too short. I seriously swear to Allah, God and Buddha (well. . . Allah and God are technically the same people, and I'm so gonna shut up right now) that the next chapter will further the plot along.  
  
Seriously. ^^;  
  
Anyhoot, as always, reviews are greatly, greatly appreciated. I live off of them, like an Irishman lives off alcohol.  
  
~Chibikat 


	3. An Offer They Can't Refuse

Disclaimer: If I owned these characters, I would be sleeping on a pile of money, with many beautiful men. Last I checked, I sleep on a mattress with my cat, who has a drooling problem.  
  
Rating: Still PG-13. Will be R. R is for Ravishing. R is for Ravenous. R is for Recyclable! . . . arr.  
  
Author's Notes: I'm popping these chapters out like shoes in a Thai sweatshop. Be proud of me for that. ^^ The muse bugs me to write, and who am I to say no. . .? Anyhoot, this chapter gets a tad bit heavier than the last few; which, I'll admit, have just been pluff. That's right. Freakin' pluff.  
  
I introduce the plot here. Omg omg lol.  
  
Also, FYI: I use the "//" thingies to indicate a word that should be italicized, but is not due to the way FF.net enjoys formatting my stories. I just might switch over to the "*" thingies, though, like all the other respectable unable-to-italicize stories. Only time will tell. . . . unless someone happens to own a DeLorean with a flux capacitor. Anyone? Michael J. Fox, I'm looking at you. No? I didn't think so.  
  
All that aside, here you go, all happy slappy dappy for you, is:  
  
~*~  
  
Finality  
  
~*~  
  
Harry stared at the imposing doors before him for a good few moments. He'd certainly faced worse in his lifetime - dark wizards hell-bent on his destruction, giant snakes and spiders, dragons, duels to the death, a non- stop marathon of Survivor: Thailand with Dudley. . . one detention with one professor for one night surely couldn't hold a candle to any of those things. Hell, he'd had multiple detentions with that Umbridge toad-woman hybrid, and he'd been forced to cut up his own hand during each session. He nearly fainted from blood loss, one time, as embarrassing as that would have been. How desperately he'd wanted to carve "I must not be a sadistic bitch and complete tool" on her forehead. Multiple times. With a dull butter knife, just so it would hurt more.  
  
Despite the fact Harry never got to exact such punishment on the pink Angora sweater wearing blemish on all of humanity, he'd gotten by just fine, all things considered. Luckily, Harry figured, Snape wouldn't mimic Umbridge's torturous, ah, foibles for detention. After all, the Potions professor had hated the woman too. Of course, that left Snape quite open and free to use the options of mental and psychological punishments to implement on Harry, which, in the long run, would probably cause more damage.  
  
It wasn't a terribly comforting realization, that. Snape alone would most likely buy Harry at least two years on the psychiatrist's couch when he was thirty and suffering from paranoia and nervous tics. Cedric's death, another year and a half; Sirius' death, perhaps two and a quarter years; the mental abuse from his "family" of the Dursleys alone would make Harry's head doctor a very, very rich man. Draco Malfoy would fit in the equation somehow, too. Oh, and Cho. Must have that spited, scorned, sobbing first love always chipping away at the conscience. And //then// all the pressure of being a child celebrity, growing up in the media, always being appraised and watched, people staring and pointing, their hateful eyes boring into his body, judging and watching and. . .!  
  
He took in a deep breath, and counted slowly to ten in his mind, just like Hermione had told him. Calm blue ocean, calm blue ocean; the last thing he needed was to go into a horrible detention as wound up as mattress spring. After a couple moments of such calming exercises, Harry looked down at his watch. Just going on six. Time to bear his cross.  
  
He pushed open the large oak doors, the creaking sound echoing through the dungeons. The temperature seemed to cool down by a few degrees as he stepped through the threshold; whether it was because the dungeons were below ground level, or because Snape had such a frigid personality, Harry could only guess. Speaking of which, said professor wasn't even at his desk.  
  
Now that was certainly strange. Blinking once, Harry closed the dungeon doors behind him, and they slammed definitively shut. "Professor?" The call was tentative - half of Harry was silently rejoicing at the prospect of getting out of a detention completely scott free, and the other half of him was silently rejoicing at the prospect of getting out of a detention completely scott free.  
  
But there was a tiny, almost invisible sliver, somewhere in his mind, soul or heart, that felt at unease, if only just a little bit. A man like Severus Snape would never, ever miss out on the chance to harass, humiliate, and generally toy with the emotions of his most hated student when given the chance: that, and he was too anal retentive to just skip out on something, no matter what it was.  
  
Harry walked slowly through the empty potions classroom, hearing nothing but his own footsteps echo about him. Something was quite obviously amiss here; and, after years of mystery solving for Hogwarts, Harry seemed to have developed something of a sixth sense for detecting that which was out of place in life. Granted, the same sixth sense had lead him astray before (suspecting Snape as the one going after the Philosopher's Stone, most all the misadventures concerning the Triwizard Tournament, thinking Sirius was trying to kill him in his third year. . . the list went on), but, usually, sometimes, it showed him the way.  
  
He went into detective mode for a moment, if only to amuse himself for a short period of time. Everything looked as if it were in order; the cauldrons were on their respective desks, the pickled animal parts hadn't gotten up and walked away, and Snape's little work area at the front of the classroom was as neat and tidy as could be expected. Indeed, there were no signs of any sort of struggle. No bloodstains, either. The more morbid part of Harry's personality was a little disappointed.  
  
Harry's scar wasn't hurting at all, so any activity involving Voldemort was ruled right out. True, as of late, it had been humming a little, but it did nothing that could constitute true hurt, i.e. sending searing, burning, intensely horrible stabs of pain through his head that felt like they were going to rip his skull into tiny pieces. Those had stopped after the debacle at the Department of Mysteries. He ran his hand through his hair, his fingers barely brushing over the ugly thing on his forehead that had made him so very, very famous; that scar which was supposed to alert him of the goings-on of You-Know-Who, the disfigurement that made him stand out, the blemish that marked his skin. As Ron pointed out, at least it wasn't acne. What Ron didn't understand was that acne didn't make one something of a social outcast. Well, at least, most of the time. There was that one Ravenclaw kid in fourth year - one could fry an egg on his face, and Harry was sure that, were the boy to accidentally run into a wall, pus would splatter everywhere.  
  
The Gryffindor sighed deeply, and shifted his book bag from one shoulder to the other. So much for detective mode; if Snape wasn't going to be present for his detention, then why should he? That's it, he was turning right around, heading back to the dorms, and having a long overdo nap. Harry found that, ever since school started, he'd been running on little to no sleep. Not that he slept much at his summer abode of the house of Dursley; actually, at midnight on most nights, Harry could be found prowling the streets of Surrey, happy to be ignored. Except for those pesky prostitutes downtown - no matter how many times Harry had told them that, no, he was most certainly //not// looking for a good time, they wouldn't leave him alone once they set their sights on him. It made him extremely uncomfortable, and the boy severely hoped he didn't catch any diseases by simply passing them on the street. There was the one girl he'd talk to sometimes, for lack of anything else to do that didn't involve sex somehow, since she was the only one that seemed to get the idea that Harry wasn't trolling for a cheap shag at night - Gretchen, was her name.  
  
He found talking to a girl like Gretchen helped to put his life into perspective. At least he wasn't out on the streets night after night, forced to make money by selling his body. God. Harry was skittish around people enough as it was.  
  
Again, he sighed deeply. He was getting seriously tired, and standing around in the cold dungeons was doing nothing to relieve him of the sleepiness that was quickly setting in. He glanced around the front of the Potions classroom - still, no sign of the dour Potions master, and it was, on further inspection of his watch, ten after six. Harry wasn't about to waste his night sitting alone in the classroom, twiddling his thumbs like a damn fool; looking forward to immediate sleep, he turned around, and -  
  
"Gah!" Harry intelligently exclaimed, unable to stop himself from jumping back a little bit. Right there in front of him, like some sort of poltergeist, stood none other than Severus Snape, tall and intimidating and dressed in layers of black as always, and holding a container of. . . of something. Harry could hear his heart hammering away in his ears, hating the fact that he was scared so terribly out of his thoughts; his eyes, wider than usual, took in the sudden sight of Snape's appearance with a bit of effort. In turn, Snape betrayed nothing but the slight twitch upwards of one eyebrow.  
  
"Have too much caffeine today, Potter?" Snape asked sans much interest, looking down at Harry's form. The younger man swallowed, blinking a few times, his one hand clutching at the strap of his bag that held his homework within. Harry breathed out quickly, and shook his head, trying to gather his wits about him. Where the hell had Snape //come// from? Christ, he'd sidled right up behind him, without a sound. . .  
  
"Um, n-no, sir," Harry replied lamely, feeling more than a little creeped out. Walking that quietly, that was just disturbing. Unimpressed, uncaring, or most likely a mixture of both, Snape simply "Mm."d in recognition of Harry's answer to his question, and breezed past him. He placed the clear, glass container, which was almost like a fishbowl full of thick, sludgy liquid, on his desk; tendrils of smoke (or something of the like) wafted from the grayish-black stuff, and it emitted a rather pungent, unappetizing odour. Harry shifted in his place again, now facing Snape's desk.  
  
"Is that why you weren't in here before?" Harry asked him, motioning towards the concoction now sitting on Snape's desk. The professor didn't look up, but shuffled a couple piles of paper into order.  
  
"No, I was busy drinking the blood of innocent virgins," he said in reply. Harry's eyebrows shot up to his hairline; this time, Snape glanced up, his expression still unreadable. "Of course I was late because of this potion, Potter. Is sarcasm simply outside your sphere comprehension?"  
  
Well, no, of course sarcasm wasn't outside of Harry's "sphere of comprehension", as Snape had put it, but generally people didn't throw such random comments at him, sarcasm or not. He set his jaw tightly and shook his head, sliding easily into a nearby chair, taking his book bag off his shoulder. Now that sleep was precisely what Harry was not going to be able to do in the next few hours, he suddenly wanted it more than ever; his eyelids felt heavy, his head ached, and generally he felt not quite so good. The smell of that damn potion was doing absolutely nothing to allay such feelings.  
  
"Do you have to keep that potion in here?" Harry asked, having a gut feeling that the smell would most definitely not be going away in the near future. The professor half-heartedly looked over an essay he was holding, then set to work on making little marks and comments all over it with his red ink-dipped quill.  
  
"Yes, Potter, I have to keep it in here. Unless, of course, you would like to have your skin melted off your body at an agonizingly slow rate, because if that's the case, I can be quite accommodating."  
  
Harry certainly didn't want //that//. Though he had to admit, he was curious.  
  
"How come?" Snape finished correcting the essay he held, and picked up another one, not allowing his train of thought to be interrupted.  
  
"How come what, Potter?" Inwardly, Harry half-grunted, half-sighed in frustration, starting to dig through his bag to find some homework to do.  
  
"How come my skin would slowly and painfully melt off of me if you moved the potion out of the room?" Scribble, 'X', scribble scribble, another large, red 'X'.  
  
"How come you ask so many questions?" Harry shrugged.  
  
"I'm a curious youth."  
  
"You're an annoyance, that's what you are." He moved the essay over to a pile of rapidly growing, completely marked pieces of parchment. Harry rolled his eyes, knowing that he should have expected as much from a git like Snape.  
  
"So says my family," Harry responded, opening up the large Defense Against the Dark Arts tome. He figured that, one of the reasons nothing really interesting had happened thus far at Hogwarts, was because the "new" DADA teacher was really just a series of substitutes that came and went on rotation. Apparently, Dumbledore had been unable to find someone willing to take the position; Harry had the distinct feeling that Snape had offered his services, but was, once again, rejected. He mentally snickered at the thought.  
  
"Muggles as your relatives may be, they're certainly correct about you," the older man stated; he read over the opening paragraph of another essay, and tsked in distaste. The quill with the red ink made trails all over //that// particular piece of writing. The Boy Who Was Usually Extremely Lucky Except For Now flipped through the pages of his textbook, "The Dark Arts: A Comprehensive Guide, 350 B.C to Present", attempting to find the chapter on basic necromancy. The subject of bringing the dead back to life would, hopefully, offset the presence of Severus Snape and that God-awful stench the potion was giving off.  
  
"Probably," Harry muttered, feeling good ol' fashioned pessimism setting in for the night. If he wasn't going to be able to sleep, then dammit, he was going to be the crankiest mother fu - hey, somebody dropped a knut on the floor!  
  
He glanced at it; well. . . really, it was //just// a knut. It wasn't like it was all-important. Sighing, Harry turned back to his text, beginning to read the chapter.  
  
'Necromancy is the practice of communicating with the spirits of the dead in order to predict the future. It dates back to Persia, Greece and Rome; in the Middle Ages, it was widely practiced by magicians, sorcerers, and witches. When use of necromancy spread to the muggle world, it was condemned by the Catholic Church as "the agency of evil spirits," and, in Elizabethan England, was outlawed by the Witchcraft Act of 1604 (see p. 472 for further details on the Witchcraft Act of 1604, under "Muggle Muddles").  
  
Necromancy is not to be confused with conjuring devils or demons for help. It is the seeking of the spirits of the dead. These spirits are sought because they, being without physical bodies, are no longer limited by the earthly plane, therefore it is thought these spirits have access to information of the past and future which is not available to the living. It has been used to help find sunken or buried treasure, and whether or not a person was murdered or died from other causes. However, many consider necromancy to be a dangerous and repugnant practice - dangerous because it is alleged that when some spirits take control of the medium, they are reluctant to release their control for some time, not unlike the Unforgivable curse of Imperius.  
  
Contary to popular belief, necromancy is not practiced in Neo-pagan Witchcraft, but it is practiced in voodoo. There are two noted kinds of necromancy: the raising of the corpse itself, and the most common kind, the conjuring or summoning of the spirit of the corpse.'  
  
Harry stopped for a moment, having now borne witness to the revelation that whoever they got to write such Ministry-approved books seriously lacked personality. God, weren't zombies supposed to be interesting? Weren't there books and movies and video games made about those brain-eating buggers, and weren't they //entertaining//?  
  
That shiny knut, just out of the corner of his eye, caught his interest once more. It irked Harry, having the knut just sitting there, barely out of his reach, glinting away defiantly.  
  
Not that Harry was aching for money or anything at the moment (far from it), but as they say, finders keepers. He quickly looked up at Snape's desk; currently, Snape was busy reading over another essay from the ungodly pile before him. The coast was, for the moment, clear.  
  
He considered using a levitating charm on the knut, but feared that Snape would hear his words and put an end to his shenanigans, despite the fact he wasn't hurting anyone. Because that's what Slytherins did - they sucked the fun out everything, like a golf ball through a garden hose.  
  
Carefully, he stretched out his arm, focusing on the knut before him; his fingertips couldn't quite reach it, so he leaned forward a little more. Looking up, Harry saw that Snape was still having a grand old time attempting to wade through fourth-year garbage about root of this and eye of that. He was going to run out of red ink soon.  
  
Once again, Harry stared hard at the knut. If he just shifted forward a little bit more, it would be all his. Slowly, cautiously, he shifted his body weight more to the side, feeling the chair tipping oh-so-precariously onto one leg. Teeth clenched and body tensed, he reached out as far as he could, his fingers stretched wide - yes, got it!  
  
While he'd acquired a knut, sadly, he'd lost his balance. With the help of the most cooperative law of gravity, Harry and his chair clattered noisily to the hard, stone surface. He felt his glasses fly merrily off his face, to skitter off into unknown parts of the Potions classroom. Wonderful. Felled by a shiny object in Snape's classroom. . . . again.  
  
Groaning inwardly and, of course, hoping that at least one of the major deities that happened to be floating around and were looking for something to do would take pity on him, Harry got up onto his knees, and began patting around for a) his glasses, or b) his wand, so he could 'Accio!' his glasses right to his hand. A moment later, his searching fingers grasped around what decidedly felt like one of the arms of his glasses; further feeling of it confirmed that the wiry thing with two, round pieces of glass stuck in it was, indeed, just what he needed to correct his vision.  
  
Harry slid his glasses on, and found himself staring at the wide, imploring eyes of a house elf.  
  
A strangled noise of surprise left Harry's throat as he instinctively scuttled backwards, which resulted in him hitting his head on the edge of his desk. This time, Harry muttered a curse under his breath, and rubbed at the sore lump quickly forming on the back of his head.  
  
"Oh! Kittles is so sorry! Kittles only meant to help, he did!" the elf (apparently named Kittles) gibbered, looking as if he was about to cry any moment. His leathery ears were flattened against his head, and he wrung his hands worriedly together in front of him, his bottom lip trembling.  
  
"Never mind Potter, he's an idiot. What are you doing here?" Snape demanded of the diminutive elf, who, upon laying eyes on the professor's rather nerve-racking form, began to shake like a leaf in the wind. Kittles swallowed dryly, backing shyly away from the much taller man.  
  
"P-Professor Dumb-b-bledore asked K-Kittles to. . . t-to deliver a m- message t-to. . . Prof-f-fessor Snape and. . . and H-Harry Potter, sirs!" he managed to stammer out, looking very much like a frightened, caged animal. Snape, who cared little for house elves as it was, simply crossed his arms.  
  
"Both myself and Mr. Potter?" he asked. Frenetically, Kittles nodded.  
  
There was silence for a brief moment, before Snape sighed irritably, glaring down at the house elf before him.  
  
"And that message is. . .?" Kittles' eyes widened further, and he turned away, bowing his head in shame for obviously not having carried out his duties to the fullest extent that was expected of him.  
  
"Kittles is so sorry, sirs! K-Kittles forgot about the message for a moment, sirs, Kittles is horrible, Kittles is - !"  
  
"Yes, yes, we've gathered that, you insufferable little annoyance. Just give us Albus' message, before I become //angry// with you," Snape ground out, staring down hard at Kittles.  
  
There was nothing like a threat to get a house elf motivated.  
  
"Professor D-Dumbledore wishes t-to speak with Harry P-Potter and Puh. . . Prof-f-fessor Snape sirs immediately, forgive Kittles for making s-sir upset, Kittles is sorry!"  
  
Harry, who had been watching this mutely for the past few moments, decided that, if the message was also intended for him, then he, too, had a say in the whole matter. Looking quickly over at Snape, Harry gathered that whatever the man was going to say would only further upset the poor house elf, and it would leave them all in varying amounts of misery and aggravation.  
  
"It's, uh, alright, Kittles," Harry said a tad haltingly, putting his hands out in front of him, attempted to placate the small house elf that stood, shivering, on the hard stone floor. His heart went out to him, it really did; being terrified so badly that it caused one to shake was not a fun experience, and Harry knew that all too well. And, to be honest, Snape didn't exactly have what someone would call a pleasant countenance on the best of days.  
  
"B-but Kittles-!" the elf began to complain, however, Harry managed to put a stop to another simpering, grammatically incorrect apology by speaking up himself.  
  
"Kittles delivered his message, which was what he was supposed to do, right?" Tentatively, Kittles wiped at his eye, then nodded his head, "So then you did a good job. We're not angry." Harry shot a meaningful look at Snape, who seemed to be impassively aggressive. Kittles blinked twice.  
  
"Sirs. . . sirs are pleased with Kittles?" he asked shyly, incredulously looking between the two of them.  
  
"Yes, we're pleased with you," Harry said quickly, in hopes that he would cut off any sort of sarcastic remark that his Potions professor would, in all likelihood, sling at the small creature. An impossible grin spread across Kittles' face, his leathery skin stretching out, contorting his face a little disturbingly.  
  
"Oh, Kittles is so happy that sirs is not angry with Kittles! Thank you sirs, sirs are most kind and wonderful, they are!" Harry himself was starting to feel annoyed, if not in a pitying sort of way; however, if he was feeling irked, then no doubt Snape was about ready to kill something. He attempted some damage control.  
  
"No, we're not angry with you, Kittles, but we need to go see Professor Dumbledore now, so if you don't mind letting us go?" Snape gave Harry a look that seemed to say 'What the hell are you doing, just push him over and go'. He felt a little helpless and stupid under such a glare, but Harry couldn't upset poor Kittles any further. Hermione would have his head on a silver platter were she to ever find out, somehow.  
  
"Of course, of course sirs! Kittles will show you the way!" the elf cried excitedly, motoring away through the large wooden doors, out into the hallway. The Potions classroom was quiet for a moment.  
  
"It figures," Snape drawled, smirking a little bit, "that you would aptly be able to deal with those of. . . lesser intelligence, Potter." And with that, the professor swept (it was impossible not to move dramatically in such billowing black robes) out of the classroom, leaving Harry to scowl at his back and, albeit reluctantly, follow him out.  
  
~*~  
  
About five minutes and three attempts to calm Kittles down later, they'd managed to arrive at the phoenix statue outside of Dumbledore's office in their respective one pieces. One snarl from the resident professor had sent Kittles a-running, quite quickly, thereafter.  
  
"House elves," Snape muttered despairingly under his breath, his lip curled slightly in disgust. Harry sighed.  
  
"They're not //that// bad," he countered, putting his hands in his pockets, looking up at the stone phoenix. The phoenix, obviously, didn't move under his gaze.  
  
"Horribly pesky, ignorant little things that interrupt me at the worst possible times. They're recurring headaches with legs," he said back. Harry refused to say 'well //everything// always seems to bother you, you jackass', because he knew that the consequences would certainly be much worse than simply a detention. He allowed himself a good, mental chuckle, though.  
  
Sighing, Snape stood in front of the stone phoenix, and seemed to size it up for a moment.  
  
"Sour lemon tart," he muttered to the statue before him. A second later, the phoenix began its spiraling ascent, unveiling the stone steps it had hidden from the two of them previously. Harry and Snape stepped on one of the stone blocks, both silent as the staircase continued to move upwards.  
  
Harry, to say the least, felt uneasy. His scar was thrumming a little bit, but it wasn't anything horribly serious; what really made Harry's gut clench was the fact that Dumbledore was calling them to his office. Together. What could Dumbledore possibly have to say that would concern the both of them?  
  
'Information on Voldemort, maybe?' he reasoned. But still, that wouldn't make sense - after all, when Harry had first learned of the existence of the Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore had pointedly kept him in the dark about a number of things, preferring Harry to remain as ignorant of the situation as humanly possible. Of course, considering the results of that had included at least one death, perhaps Dumbledore had tweaked his strategy.  
  
Harry glanced over at Snape; his arms were crossed over his chest, and he was staring fixedly ahead, his expression unreadable. Did Snape know something that Harry didn't? That would make sense - after all, he was a double agent, spying on Voldemort to learn his secrets, so Harry was quite certain that the dour Potions master was privy to a wealth of information that he himself would, in all likelihood, not find out until he was much older. Seventeen years old, and still they treated him like a child.  
  
The upward movement of the phoenix stopped, and suddenly, Harry found himself staring at the door that led to Dumbledore's office. His stomach churned away; either some sort of terrible information was going to be dropped on them, or cow he'd eaten bits of at dinnertime had most decidedly been mad. Harry wasn't sure which outcome was worse.  
  
Swallowing dryly, Harry put his hand around the doorknob, and paused only for a moment before twisting it, and pushing the door open.  
  
He'd been up to Dumbledore's office enough times to not be intrigued by the various shiny, lustrous, silver doohickeys that adorned the many shelves in the room. A fire was burning in the brick fireplace, small enough to give an air of intimacy to the room, yet large enough to also provide warmth. Numerous books of numerous interests of numerous authors rested comfortably on the antiquated, polished wooden shelves; and, of course, Fawkes was perched in a noble fashion against the backdrop of friendly yellows, browns, blues, and what-have-you's that comprised the headmaster's office.  
  
The elderly man himself was sat behind his desk, adorned in a faintly blue robe that was not quite plain, yet not quite ornate either. As soon as Harry saw him, he felt his stomach twist - there was something about the way that Dumbledore was just. . . just //sitting// there that felt off. Something was //definitely// wrong. Dumbledore looked unusually pensive; his eyes, which were scanning a sheet of parchment held in his hands, bore no mirth.  
  
He looked up at them.  
  
"Please, sit," Dumbledore said amiably enough, gesturing to the two seats in front of his desk. Harry and Snape each took a chair; Harry stared at Dumbledore, hoping that, if he somehow stared long enough, he would get a sense of what was going on. It didn't work.  
  
"Albus," Snape began, his hands folded on his lap, "I am sure you have a good reason for calling us here, however could it not wait?"  
  
"Severus, my dear boy, what I have to tell you is much more important that one, simple detention. No, it cannot wait." To Harry's knowledge, Albus Dumbledore was the only man in existence who could call Snape 'my dear boy' and not be promptly killed. He looked over at Snape; it seemed to him that his professor's already thin lips had just thinned out even more as he pursed them slightly together. Dumbledore looked over his piece of parchment once more, and sighed deeply.  
  
"Your suspicions have been confirmed, Severus," the old man said quietly. Snape's eyes widened, albeit barely.  
  
"So soon?" he asked, his voice as quiet, if not more so, than the Headmaster's. Dumbledore nodded gravely; Harry watched as he stroked his beard in thought, his eyes still resting on the parchment. He looked almost. . . regretful, of something.  
  
"I am afraid so. I just received this from the Order," Dumbledore said, handing the parchment over to Snape; as the Potions master read it over, his hands seemed to clench tighter onto it, a look of pure astonishment crossing his face.  
  
"But it is simply impossible," Snape almost whispered, clearly surprised, "There is no way that he could be strong enough to - "  
  
"I assumed the same thing, Severus. Clearly, he has found a source that we aren't aware of."  
  
The youngest in the room, meanwhile, was on the edge of his seat with curiosity, his eyes darting back and forth between Snape and Dumbledore as if he were at a tennis match. If they weren't going to tell him what was going on soon, he was sure he would explode with anticipation. It didn't help things that Dumbledore and Snape had, at least temporarily, forgotten that Harry even existed, mind the fact he was in the same room as the two of them.  
  
Harry cleared his throat loudly. To the boy's luck, Snape was rather too surprised to be much annoyed with the interruption.  
  
"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore asked him, frustratingly friendly as he always was, despite such intensity in his eyes that seemed somehow out of place.  
  
"You called both Professor Snape and I up here," Harry reminded him, "so shouldn't I at least know what's going on?" Dumbledore simply smiled at him. It wavered, but only slightly.  
  
"Why you're quite right, Harry, you're quite right." Looking back and forth once between the headmaster and Snape, who miraculously still seemed flabbergasted, Harry nodded once, trying to get more comfortable in his seat. Dumbledore calmly folding his wrinkled hands atop his desk, and let out an inaudible sigh.  
  
"It's about Voldemort, isn't it?" Harry prodded tentatively, hoping futilely that he was wrong. Judging by Dumbledore's downcast expression, Harry had hit the mark on the bull's eye.  
  
"What bad news isn't about Voldemort, these days?" the headmaster rhetorically asked him, a rather sad smile crossing his face. Snape was looking determinedly away, staring off into the fireplace that was burning far too bright against the suddenly downtrodden mood that had descended upon the office like a fog.  
  
"I've fought him before, Headmaster," Harry tried to assure him, feeling it his duty to defend his name and his headmaster's sense of security, "I've fought him and I've won, and - "  
  
"You've been lucky, Harry," Dumbledore said quietly. "Your courage and strength are far beyond your years, but you did not escape death by nothing but your hand." The boy furrowed his eyebrows.  
  
"What are you - ?"  
  
"If Albus or your friends hadn't have helped you before, you would currently be six feet underground, Potter," Snape said mechanically, still staring at the fireplace. The dancing flames reflected surprisingly clearly in his dark, almost black eyes. It spit and crackled, and was for the moment the only definite sound that could be heard. It was Harry's turn to be shocked, for the time being.  
  
"But. . . what about the Triwizard Tournament? I did that by myself," Harry said, almost pleadingly. Once again, Snape answered him.  
  
"Except Cedric is currently where you are supposed to be, now isn't he? From what I gather," he said, barely glancing over at Harry, breaking his concentration on the fire, "the young man provided for you an invaluable distraction. . . and casualty."  
  
Harry's face had gone white with anger.  
  
How dare he. How fucking //dare// he.  
  
"That wasn't my fault," the boy ground out, his voice barely above a whisper. His green eyes smoldered with angry intensity as he stared hard at his Potions professor, hate swelling in his veins.  
  
"Of course it was not, Potter," Snape replied, almost airily. Harry felt his fist balling of its own accord by his side. All he'd have to do was wind up and let it fly; there was no way - no //way// - that he was going to let Snape get away with saying that, for accusing //him// of. . . he couldn't even say it. No. It was Voldemort's fault, //not// his!  
  
"It wasn't my fault! It was Voldemort's!" Harry repeated, hot anger worming its stubborn way throughout his body. He knew he was going to lose it soon.  
  
"Harry, Severus!" Dumbledore said sternly, the niceness in his voice and features now replaced with firm reprimand. Blinking in a bit of surprise, Harry quickly turned his eyes towards those of Dumbledore's, and felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Breathing out somewhat shakily, the burn of anger swiftly mutated into the burn of shame, and Harry found himself looking down and away, mumbling a quiet apology to his headmaster. Snape simply returned his gaze to the fireplace, watching it crackle and snap every now and then.  
  
Dumbledore himself sighed, his features still hardened.  
  
"I will refuse to allow whatever sort of animosity you two share into my office, is that understood? Both of you are adults - start acting like it." It was the closest to a real and true critical lecture that Dumbledore had ever given to Harry; as such, it had that much more of an impact. Immediately, Harry felt guilt swamp his system as he wrung the material of his robe in his hands; echoes of intense anger soon melded into a silent reprimand of his self.  
  
Snape slowly glanced at Dumbledore, and held the older man's gaze for but a few seconds, before allowing his eyes to make their ways slowly back to the fire. Harry had a sneaking suspicion that it was the most that Dumbledore was going to get out of the professor, apology-wise. The eldest man waited for a moment longer, allowing the silence in the room to slowly sink into the two sitting before him. Harry fidgeted a little, feeling uneasy.  
  
"Now," Dumbledore began, sighing deeply as he picked up the sheet of parchment once more. "Harry, as you know, Severus has been invaluable in his work spying on You-Know-Who, and since the. . . unpleasantness. . . at the Department of Mysteries, he has been steadily regaining power."  
  
"That doesn't seem terribly out of the ordinary," Harry replied. "That's what he does every year, isn't it? Usually he waits until at least after Christmas, though," he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away slightly. Snape barely quirked an eyebrow at this.  
  
"I will agree, You-Know-Who does seem to have a history of the building of and, consequentially, destruction of his power. It seems, however, that he's learned something this time," Dumbledore explained, looking up from the parchment in his hand to Harry.  
  
"What's that, sir?"  
  
"That numbers count." Harry looked somewhat back at Dumbledore.  
  
"We already know about the Death Eaters and the Dementors," he stated, running a hand through his unruly black hair. Dumbledore sighed inaudibly.  
  
"This goes beyond Death Eaters and Dementors, I am afraid."  
  
Harry blinked.  
  
"Beyond. . .?"  
  
"Bribes, threats, blackmail; whatever he couldn't get by force, he got with money," Snape said quietly, once again joining the conversation. Quickly, Harry turned to look at Snape.  
  
"But why?" was the only question that Harry could immediately think of. The Potions teacher sighed, still looking away, as if in thought.  
  
"The prison breaks of the Death Eaters from Azkaban were far too obvious; after all of his failed attempts, he's finally learned something about subtlety. Needless to say, Voldemort has far more than just the Ministry in his grasp," Snape stated, his voice flat. Harry watched as the man barely shifted his left arm, knowing full well that one, extremely definitive tattoo lay underneath the layers of black robes. The boy couldn't help but wonder if the mark was burning right at that moment.  
  
He shook his head. Why, Harry thought, was nothing making a whole lot of sense lately?  
  
"Let me get this straight - Voldemort has all these people working for him, on //top// of the Dementors and Death Eaters?" Harry asked, seeking clarification. Dumbledore nodded once in assent. "Who?"  
  
Snape and Dumbledore briefly exchanged glances.  
  
"Well. . ." the elderly Wizengamot began, pensively stroking his beard. Harry's eyebrows rose to the middle of his forehead.  
  
"You mean you don't know?" Dumbledore smiled apologetically.  
  
"Not yet, my dear boy, not yet. In fact, I must say that we are quite fortunate to be aware of these events at all; the Order has gone through many pains to find such information out."  
  
"Except the important stuff, like names," Harry retorted. "What good is knowing that Voldemort has more people on his side now if we don't know who they //are//?" Gently, Dumbledore set down the piece of parchment on his desk, and folded his hands together atop it.  
  
"The good of it, Harry, is that we now know Voldemort is taking action. And that gives us time to find a way to protect you," Dumbledore explained quietly, looking Harry in the eye. Rather than feeling at all placated by such words, Harry found himself bristling.  
  
"I don't need your protection," Harry bit off, venom creeping into his voice. "The last time you tried to 'protect' me, I. . . Sirius. . ." His sentence, once full of righteous bitterness, trailed off, and he swallowed dryly. Dumbledore smiled sadly.  
  
"What happened to your godfather was an unfortunate mistake, and one that we all regret," he said, "However we have also learned from it. Harry, we are not keeping secrets from you this time; we know that you're old and mature enough to handle this information, and believe me when I say that we have the utmost faith in you." Harry looked down, chewing on his bottom lip; at this, Dumbledore slightly furrowed his eyebrows, sympathy showing on his face.  
  
"Harry. I understand that you've gone through much since you first set foot in this school; you've shouldered far more responsibility than should ever be asked of anyone, no matter what their age," he said softly, watching as Harry continued to steadfastly look down. Dumbledore paused for only a moment, searching for the right words. "The untimely passing of Sirius has been a tremendous loss for all of us, and I wish I could say that there was nothing I could have done to prevent it, but. . . we both know the truth, don't we?"  
  
The room was, for lack of a better term, silent as a tomb. Dumbledore intently watched Harry's emotions play over his face; still looking down, the boy ceased biting his lip, only to tighten them as he quickly squeezed his eyes shut.  
  
'No, stop it, don't cry, you're better than that,' Harry desperately told himself, holding his own arms in his hands across his stomach. He refused to allow his breath to hitch; no, he wouldn't break down, not in front of Dumbledore, and especially not in front of Snape, of all the goddamned people in the world. Thankfully, he managed to swallow the sob that threatened to issue from his throat, and after another few moments of silence, he opened his eyes, which were devoid of tears. His face was stony, hating the feel of Dumbledore's and Snape's eyes on him; he heard the man beside him shift in his chair a little bit as the tension in the air thickened along with the silence.  
  
The fire continued to crackle in the hearth, casting shadows on all the objects in the room, along with everyone's features. Covertly glancing over, Harry saw the flickering shadows that fell across Snape's face; the stark contrast of dark shadow against almost-white skin seemed to make his features all that more sharp. He looked. . . tired.  
  
There was another brief moment.  
  
"We want to prevent another mistake like Sirius' death from happening again," Albus said a trice later, his voice soothing, yet firm. "But in order to do that, you must listen to what I am saying. This isn't simply a matter of you and Voldemort now, Harry - we're facing a war."  
  
Slowly, Harry looked up at Dumbledore.  
  
"A war?" he asked, the quietness of his voice nearly swallowed by the hungry silence.  
  
"A war," Dumbledore repeated. "The wizarding world has become a dangerous place as of late; with Voldemort now having assembled a wider scope of followers, it is only a matter of time before he makes the first move. And," he said, his eyes flickering for a moment, "I fear that first move will be against Hogwarts."  
  
"Hogwarts? Are you sure? I mean, aren't there more important places, like government buildings or something?" Harry questioned, alarmed by intense seriousness in the headmaster's voice. He desperately wanted to believe that what Dumbledore was saying wasn't true.  
  
"His main goal, most all of these years, has been to kill you, Potter," Snape said, barely looking over at the boy beside him. "Here you are at Hogwarts." Harry shook his head, incredulous.  
  
"But there are wards, and other protection spells on the grounds here," he reasoned, suddenly able to feel a knot in his stomach, which was tightening uncomfortably.  
  
"Indeed there are, Harry; but as we full well know, Voldemort is as crafty as he is powerful. It is only a matter of time before he finds a way to break the protection spells I've placed on Hogwarts," Dumbledore explained. "The magic protecting Hogwarts is only as strong as I am, and I'm getting old. I cannot hope to hold Voldemort off forever."  
  
For yet another time in his life, Harry felt helpless.  
  
"Then. . . then what //can// we do?" Once again, Dumbledore stroked his beard.  
  
"As Headmaster of Hogwarts, my number one priority is the safety of my students; and as much as I abhor saying this, the fact of the matter is that your presence, Harry, is endangering the welfare of those attending this school."  
  
Harry outright stared at Dumbledore. Somewhere, deep in the depths of his mind, Harry knew that what Albus Dumbledore was saying was only logical and true - Voldemort was after him, and would not even bat an eye were the entire population of the school killed before he was even found. It still hurt, though; despite all the sense it made, what Dumbledore had just said cut the boy very deeply. It wasn't even his fault that this dark force wanted him, that such a horrible man was after his life. . . the last thing he wanted to do was put everyone in danger, and yet it seemed that, no matter what he did or how hard he tried, death was willing to seek out his friends before it sought him.  
  
The frustration alone made him want to scream. He settled for clenching his fists.  
  
"But. . .I. . .it's not fair. . ." Harry said weakly, finding his gaze to suddenly be unfocused, "The last thing I want is for everyone to be in danger - all this, all because of me. . . it's. . . goddammit, it's not fair!" If Dumbledore cared that Harry had just swore in front of him and Professor Snape, it certainly did not show.  
  
"Nothing is fair in these times, Harry, and for that I am truly sorry," Dumbledore said quietly, sincere with both his words and his eyes, dulled somewhat by the gravity of the possibilities to be faced.  
  
For the second time in such a short period, Harry felt like crying. It really //wasn't// fair; after all that he'd faced, after all that he'd been through, he was still just a liability. Just something to be ostracized, something to even be afraid of.  
  
"What do you propose, then, Albus?" Snape asked, in a tone that Harry found oddly dulcet to his hears. For once, Harry couldn't detect a spot of sarcasm or bitterness - only an honest question. Harry supposed he had to clutch to anything, now, to stop himself from utterly and completely breaking down.  
  
"For the meantime, I've managed to set up something of a safe house for Harry; I have been told that Remus owns a secluded cabin that should provide sufficient shelter. He can stay with him there until we have come to a final conclusion as to our future plans concerning Harry and Voldemort." Harry always despised it when people spoke of him as if he weren't there in the room with them.  
  
"I have to leave Hogwarts?" he inquired, the knot in his stomach as painful as ever. The Wizengamot closed his eyes, sighing gently.  
  
"I am afraid so, if only for the time being," Dumbledore replied, "However, it is for the best."  
  
For some reason, Harry just //knew// it was going to come down to something along these lines, but it didn't lessen then hurt. The thought of seeing Lupin once again was of small consolation.  
  
"How am I getting there? I can't just Apparate, can I?" Harry asked, feeling strangely hollow.  
  
"Certainly not, it would be too risky. I believe the best way is, sadly, the hardest way - by foot. The Floo network is still being watched, and even the Knight Bus cannot be trusted," the elderly man explained, his hands busying themselves by straightening out a pile of wayward papers. Harry raised his eyebrows slightly.  
  
"I'm supposed to walk to a cabin in the woods - which woods, of course, I don't know - by myself, and hope that I don't get caught?" he asked, incredulous.  
  
"Of course not Harry, that would just be silly, now wouldn't it?" Dumbledore said easy, a small smile tugging at his lips. "That's why Severus shall be accompanying you."  
  
Snape's head suddenly jerked up, rudely awakened from whatever sort of lull he was in.  
  
"What?" both teacher and student asked simultaneously, eyes widened and minds clearly and completely shocked.  
  
Dumbledore just smiled as a sudden barrage of questions were thrown at him, once again simultaneously.  
  
"But Headmaster, why //him// - ?!"  
  
"Albus, you can't be serious - !"  
  
"There's got to be another way!"  
  
"I have classes to teach!"  
  
"He hates me!"  
  
"I hate Lupin!"  
  
"Lupin hates him!"  
  
"I'm getting too old for this, Albus!"  
  
Calmly, the headmaster held up his hands in front of him, attempting to mollify the two before him.  
  
"Frankly, I can think of none better suited for this duty. Severus, of all the teachers here, you are the one most acquainted with defense and Dark Arts spells. You are more than familiar with the workings of Voldemort, you are the only professor physically fit for such a trip, and lastly, I trust you." Snape's mouth seemed to work, but his words, sadly, did not. His original defense of 'Can't you find someone else?' seemed to have failed already.  
  
"But Professor Dumbledore. . .!" Harry began; however, further than that, he didn't know what to say. As much as he hated to admit it, all the points that his headmaster had made were horribly, terribly true - it wasn't as if McGonagall could very well traipse about the woods, and while Hagrid was very physically able, his common sense was. . . well, not.  
  
Harry's heart sunk. Dumbledore just continued to smile.  
  
"Well, I'm glad we could reach an agreement. I've instructed Remus to notify me as soon as you arrive," he said, standing up from his seat. "Be ready to leave tomorrow. I have the utmost faith in both of you."  
  
Suddenly, Harry was very aware of Snape's presence beside him; looking over, he saw that, indeed, Snape was glaring at him. Harry glared right back.  
  
Tomorrow was not going to be fun.  
  
~*~  
  
. . . wasn't that long? @.@ Yes. Yes it was. Longest chapter yet - and wait, a plot is actually beginning to form! Hippy hoo!  
  
I can only hope that you enjoyed it. How can I have these hopes confirmed? By reviews, of course! Sweet, sweet reviews. Reviews make me teh happy. Teh happy, damn your eyes.  
  
. . . yes. ^_^ Constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I can only better myself if you tell me what needs improvement. Thank you, come again.  
  
To quote a horribly translated video game:  
  
"You win! I love you."  
  
~Chibikat 


	4. Crying and Pimples Are Both Very Messy

*Disclaimer*: Aye. If I owned these characters, then Johnny Depp would be a wizard, and Snape would, in all likelihood, get random nude scenes. Like in 'Dark Harbor'. Who else has seen that movie? That ending. . . dude.  
  
Oh, crap - I just realized it's overdue at Blockbuster. By. . . oh geeze, two months. . . well, I'm an idiot.  
  
*Rating*: Hurrah for PG-13! It's a high enough rating to ensure something interesting will happen, but low enough to allow it to appear on the FF.net page without special tinkering with the Ratings scroll-down thingy. Good times, eh? Good freaking times.  
  
*Author's Notes*: Two updates in one month? From Chibikat?! Incroyable! Impossible! Imagine! Indiquer!  
  
. . . oui!  
  
French has eaten my brain, what can I say. Anyway, I can't believe the amount of feedback I'm getting from you guys - it's nothing short of awesome! =D Reviews make me teh damn happy, so in essence, I've been so happy that drugs are finally not required. Bon.  
  
Also, I've gotten rid of the // things. They've been bugging me a lot, and they're more of an eyesore than the * things. I might go back and edit them all out sometime in the near future (maybe tomorrow).  
  
The plot moves along. Dear God.  
  
. . . enjoy! ^^;  
  
~//*//~  
  
Finality  
  
~//*//~  
  
Harry openly stared at the portrait of Catherine the Fat Lady, watching her sleep soundly within her frame. Not long after Snape and he left the Potions classroom for Harry to retrieve the things he'd left there, said professor wandered quickly off into his rooms by himself without so much as a word, his expression as stony as the walls comprising Hogwarts. It suited Harry just fine.  
  
Snape didn't need to say anything. Neither did Harry, for that matter. They both knew that whatever was going to come next would be some form of über-Hell for the two of them, and why compound their misery with useless words?  
  
He was leaving Hogwarts, for a period of time that constituted "probably forever". He felt as if he'd never be happy again for the rest of his life, even if he were on drugs. Unless they were exceptionally strong drugs; then he'd simply spend the remainder of his days in a stupor, which was even less appealing, which then circled back to the fact that the cause of this sudden rush of depression was that he was leaving Hogwarts, still for an undetermined amount of time that roughly equaled "probably forever".  
  
"Excuse me?" Harry said quietly to the painting, his voice sounding as if it were coated in molasses, choked and thick. He felt guilty for disturbing the poor woman's sleep, which made his chest constrict even more. She stirred.  
  
"Mm, hm?" the Fat Lady mumbled, slowly blinking her eyes to openness. She yawned and daintily covered her mouth with her perpetually gloved hand; she smiled amiably as she recognized the particular Gryffindor who stood before her.  
  
"Oh, good evening, Harry," Catherine greeted, straightening her dress somewhat, "Do forgive me for dozing off like that, I generally try not to. Terribly embarrassing, you see, but one certainly cannot hope to stay awake during these dull times with no students milling about the halls. Portraits, sadly, lack the ability to imbibe coffee."  
  
Harry smiled at her little joke, but the muscle movement felt so. . . unnatural, as though his smile was horribly out of place. It most likely was, he mused. Being the lady that she was, Catherine noticed.  
  
"Something the matter, dear?" she asked him, tilting her head slightly. Deeply, Harry sighed, shifting the bag on his shoulder a little bit.  
  
"Just tired," he said. At least it was true. The rather girth-ridden woman nodded, and yawned once more.  
  
"Ah, I know how you feel, dearest, I know how you feel. I suppose you'd like to get into your dormitory for some much needed rest, then?"  
  
"I would, thank you." Harry paused for a short few moments, furrowing his eyebrows slightly. This was the last time he'd ever see the Fat Lady, and the last time he'd crawl through the portrait hole to the Gryffindor common room; he'd done it so many times with his friends, it was such a part of his daily routine that he didn't even have to think about it any more.  
  
Harry shook his head, trying to get a grip on his emotions. It was, much to Harry's chagrin, like what he assumed trying to hold onto the soap in a prison shower was like - impossibly difficult, and if such grip was lost, it could never be regained without getting royally. . . well, for lack of a better word, fucked. He forced a sigh.  
  
"Citrus Lady," he said to her. Harry's behaviour was, to Catherine, curious enough to warrant a frown of such embodied curiosity, but not so much to bring forth more words. Obediently, Catherine swung herself open, revealing the hole that lead to Gryffindor's common room.  
  
The last time. . .  
  
With a deep breath, Harry stepped through the portrait hole. He walked slowly through; carefully, he allowed his fingertips to graze against the slightly rough sides of the portrait hole, reading and memorizing the walls like brail. Such familiarity that he'd never noticed before spoke to him through his fingers; he listened to his nails scratch very lightly against the sides, and he wondered why he'd never noticed such things before. Perhaps it was because he didn't have the time to, nor the care.  
  
Slowly, Harry continued his way through the admittedly short portrait hole passage; he could easily hear the sound of a fire crackling away in the Gryffindor hearth, as also the heat from such flames wafted comfortably about, gently breezing its way to the portrait hole entrance at a perfectly leisurely pace. The boy was about to step foot into the common room, when a realization hit him like a bludger during a Quidditch game against Slytherin: Hermione and Ron were, in all likelihood, in the general vicinity of the common room.  
  
Oh, sweet Allah, God, Buddha or other, Harry knew he was going to have to face them. And he also knew that the results would, in all likelihood, be rather ugly; they would be curious, possibly upset, perhaps even *angry* at him. He wouldn't be able to take it if they got mad with him, he just knew it - after all that had happened, to cause his friends to be angry after such a night just was not an option for him. Though, if past events proved anything, it was that causing strife amongst his best friends was most certainly an option for the cruel and twisty personality of Fate.  
  
Harry swore repeatedly and, as the short moments passed on, more creatively in his mind, trying to stall the inevitable. He poked his head barely out of the portrait hole; indeed, he could see Hermione and Ron playing some sort of card game.  
  
"Aw come on, you sure?" Ron said, shuffling the deck of cards.  
  
"Ron, I refuse to let this degrade to a strip game; the last time you talked me into playing strip poker with you, Harry, Seamus and Dean, I was rather traumatized, being the only girl there," Hermione stated. Ron couldn't help but grin mischievously.  
  
"Is 'traumatized' the word you're really looking for, 'Mione?" he said slyly, waggling his eyebrows as he seemed to enjoy doing as of late. Hermione narrowed her eyes.  
  
"Absolutely positive," she deadpanned. The redhead sighed dramatically, and looked away, feigning pain and rejection.  
  
"To think that you found the sight of my manly body traumatizing; well, I suppose my crushed self-esteem can inflate your - hey look, Harry's back! Hiya, Harry!" Ron said enthusiastically, showing off his keen ability to be distracted by anyone and anything, shiny or not. He waved genially at him; Harry's eyes simply widened. Wonderful. Caught unawares by his well- meaning but quite occasionally emotionally thick best friend.  
  
Hermione shook her head, muttered something under her breath, and proceeded to turn her attention also to the portrait hole. She smiled at him.  
  
"So you survived your detention?" she asked amiably enough, getting up from her place at the Gryffindor common room's aptly common table. She was joined by Ron as she strode over to where Harry was still standing a bit dumbly in the passageway. "What are you doing hanging around in the portrait hole? Come on and join us for a quick game of poker."  
  
"Strip poker," Ron added with a smirk. Hermione nudged him none-too-gently in the ribs.  
  
"Fine. It's regular, keep-your-clothes-on poker. Still sound fun to you?" Harry shifted in his place, clutching the strap on his book bag.  
  
"Well, actually, I. . ." he began, but his voice rather keenly decided to fail him at that particular point in time. Why did it have to be so hard? He didn't want to ruin their obviously good mood; maybe just a note for the morning would suffice? No, he'd probably forget some things he'd want to say, they'd remain angry at him, things wouldn't really turn out for the best. Well, the best for a horrendously bad situation.  
  
As always, Hermione was the first - and only - one to notice Harry's obvious discomfort.  
  
"Harry, what's wrong? You look a little pale; you're not sick again, are you?" Were Harry of the mood, he would've smiled at Hermione's natural, 'mother hen' attitude; it was one of the traits in her that Harry had always liked and admired, and he knew that few her age exercised such utterly maternal protectiveness and concern. He shook his head.  
  
"No, I'm feeling alright," Harry said, a lie if there ever was one. Once again, he shifted his bag on his shoulder. "Um, we need to talk." Ron blinked.  
  
"Okay," he said, confusion freely roaming the terrain that was Ron's face. The three of them wandered over to the overstuffed chairs in front of the fireplace, Hermione and Ron exchanging a glance every now and then. They each sunk into a chair; allowing the comfortably rolling heat to overtake his senses for a moment, Harry sighed deeply, feeling tired to the very marrow of his bones. All he really wanted to do was sleep; and, closing his eyes, he very nearly did, until Hermione's voice prodded him to alertness once more.  
  
"Harry?" she asked tentatively, furrowing her eyebrows. Ron helpfully poked Harry's shoulder.  
  
"What's the matter, mate? Did you get dumped or something? 'Cause I didn't know you had a girlfriend," he said. Harry shook his head.  
  
"I don't have a girlfriend, Ron," Harry responded, the clenching feeling in his gut returning full-force.  
  
"Not anymore? Cheer up, then. These things happen, I guess. I mean, one minute they're all hugs and kisses and romance, and the next they tell you they've 'found somebody else'. It only goes to show you that women really *don't* know what they want." Ron's small speech was met with a pointed glare from Hermione, which caused the freckled boy to laugh nervously.  
  
"Okay, well, *some* girls obviously don't act like that, but it's a really small minority that don't. Most of them act like Cho. You know, I saw her the other day hanging around with a *Slytherin*? I was about to go up to her and be all 'Hey, Cho, what do you think you're doing?', but then I thought, 'Nah, Harry wouldn't like that', but *then* I thought, 'Wait, maybe he would!', so I go up to her, right? And she's all like - "  
  
"Ron?" Harry asked, his eyes still closed. Ron blinked, a little surprised that his ramble had been cut off.  
  
"Yeah, Harry?"  
  
"Please do us a favour and shut up." Ron couldn't help but frown a little; but, obliging that he was, he did as his friend asked.  
  
"Alright," he said quietly, rather sincere rejection in his voice. "I was just trying to help, is all."  
  
Oh, sod it all.  
  
'Well, why don't you just stick a knife in my gut and twist it?' Harry thought as guilt flooded his system. Wonderful - this night was surely shaping up to be one of the worst he could ever remember. Harry sighed again.  
  
"Ron, I'm sorry, okay? It's just that this has nothing to do with any sort of girlfriend, and I've had a *really* bad night," he muttered, massaging his temples.  
  
"Was Snape really that bad? What did he make you do?" Hermione asked, curious and concerned, as she always seemed to be.  
  
"It wasn't just Snape. Gods, if it *was* just him, then I'd be fine, really." He took in a deep breath. "I. . . you know you're both my best friends, don't you? I trust you both with my life," Harry said quietly, opening his eyes. Both Ron and Hermione looked rather taken aback.  
  
"Uh," Ron said intelligently, obviously not having expected such a compliment. "Thanks, Harry." He smiled a little encouragingly at his friend.  
  
"I trust you with my life too, Harry," Hermione said, a little placated by Harry's kind words, yet intensely more worried about what said words were leading up to. "Both Ron and I already have, I suppose." She tilted her head, bits of puffy hair going along with it.  
  
"Why? Harry, tell us what's wrong. Please?"  
  
The Boy-Who-Lived found his right hand clenching and unclenching the fabric of his robe, rather nervously. He looked down. Well, it was do or die time, and Harry had the horrible feeling that he'd die no matter what he did or didn't do.  
  
He took in a deep breath.  
  
"I have to leave Hogwarts."  
  
Hermione and Ron openly stared at him.  
  
"Run that by me again? Because I think I may have had something crazy stuck in my ear," Ron said, his eyes having widened a fair amount. Harry shifted uncomfortably in his chair.  
  
"It's sort of hard to explain - " Well, in truth, it really wasn't, it just made Harry feel even more horrendously guilty, " - but Dumbledore says I have to leave Hogwarts." Both Hermione and Ron continued to stare at Harry for what seemed, to him, to be quite the amount of time. The room was silent; and it was, of course, uncomfortably so.  
  
"He. . . Dumbledore's making you leave Hogwarts? He's making you *leave*?" Hermione asked, her eyes also wide, and her voice seemingly rising in pitch. "Why? That doesn't make any sense! It's completely unfair, there must be some mistake!"  
  
"No mistake," Harry said morosely, "because Dumbledore knew exactly what he was talking about. He said that I was. . . t-too much of a danger to Hogwarts." He completed his sentence with something between a smirk and a scowl, hoping against hope that, somehow, Ron and Hermione had missed the small hitch in his voice. He himself certainly hadn't.  
  
"Too much of a danger?" Ron repeated, his surprise quickly turning to lividness. "Harry, a pyromaniac is too much of a danger. A sociopath is too much of a danger. You're neither of those, to my knowledge! I mean, for the love of Merlin, you've saved the school, what, a million times or something? How the hell is that *dangerous*?!"  
  
"Saving the school isn't dangerous - it's the fact that I'm *causing* the danger," Harry replied ruefully, running a hand through his thick hair. "Don't you see? If I wasn't here, then *nothing* would've happened; there would've been absolutely no reason for me to save anything at all. Ron, if I weren't here, then Ginny wouldn't have ever gotten mixed up with that stupid diary. I almost got your little sister killed!"  
  
"No, you didn't!" Ron said adamantly, shaking his head. "That was *Voldemort's* fault, not yours - don't you even think of blaming yourself for that!"  
  
"But Voldemort wouldn't have ever bothered with her if it wasn't for *me*!" he practically shouted back, standing up from his place on the chair, "He only came after her to get to me, and why was that? Because I was *here*, at Hogwarts!"  
  
It suddenly all clicked in Harry's mind as the words left his mouth. It was true - what he was saying was terribly, horribly true. Oh, sure, he'd been aware of the truth; he knew that, in some sort of way, the goings-on of the underworld of Hogwarts was connected to him, if only vaguely, at the very least. It had always felt far too esoteric to truly bother him.  
  
Now, it seemed as real and solid as the fist he was clenching by his side. Dumbledore's words, Voldemort's words; hell, even Snape's offhanded remarks about the dangers he posed to the population of the school all made such chilling sense that Harry felt as if he was about to cry. Dully, Harry realized that, yes, he *was* about to cry. Again.  
  
If only he weren't so bloody tired.  
  
He slumped back into the chair. His voice was thick when he spoke.  
  
"It's true, and you know it," he said, looking down and away. Hermione shook her head, both she and Ron now standing in front of him.  
  
"No, it's not. Dumbledore accepted you into this school, knowing the consequences of what was to happen. It's. . . what he's doing isn't fair to you," she explained softly.  
  
'Consequences. She used the word *consequences*, because me attending a damned school is so terribly wrong,' Harry thought rather maliciously. He, however, said nothing for a short time.  
  
"Fair or not," he started slowly, barely looking up at his friend, "it's right. He said that he. . ." Harry began, trailing off before finishing, though. He couldn't quite say it. No - if he said it, then he knew for real, certain fact that it was true. Dumbledore had said that he wanted to prevent another mistake like Sirius' death from happening again.  
  
Which meant that Dumbledore had, in other words, told Harry that the death of his godfather was the direct result of Harry's presence.  
  
"Harry? What'd he say?" Ron asked quietly, doing his best to tone his anger down for the sake of his best friend. Harry bit his lip, but remained silent.  
  
"Harry," Hermione began, kneeling down in front of him, trying to look up into his eyes. "If you don't want to tell us, then we under - "  
  
"He said he wanted to prevent another mistake like Sirius' death from happening again." Harry's voice was nearly a whisper, but it carried through the room almost unnaturally clearly.  
  
Oh, God. He'd said it. It was so abrupt, so clear, so harshly. . . *true*. He didn't even think about it; he'd known it all along. He had just chosen to detach himself from it. God.  
  
It was true.  
  
And suddenly, Harry found at least seven year's worth of pent up anger, guilt, frustration, depression, and loneliness spill down his cheeks.  
  
"Oh; oh, no, Harry, shh," Hermione murmured comfortingly, drawing her friend into a hug. Rather than calm him down, the physical touch seemed to break down some sort of wall within the boy; he openly sobbed, and clutched at Hermione, his body shaking.  
  
"I d-didn't mean to - ! I just w-wanted to help him, I didn't know, oh God it's my fault, Sirius. . .!" he said, the words choked and chopped between his sobs, holding tightly onto Hermione as if his life depended on it. For the time being, his life seemed to, anyway.  
  
Ron, however, found himself not knowing quite what to do. Watching his best friend - the tough, fun, almost-rogue Harry Potter - openly weep was extremely uncomfortable for him, and it left Ron simply shifting from foot to foot. He was thankful that Hermione seemed to be able to handle the situation (as most females seemed apt to do in such times), however Ron also mentally cursed himself for being so emotionally. . . well, retarded.  
  
He knelt down beside Harry anyway, figuring that he should at least give it a shot.  
  
"Harry? Hey, come on, it wasn't your fault. You weren't to know, right? I'm sure Sirius understands, wherever he is," he quietly told his friend, patting him a bit awkwardly on the back. Much to Ron's chagrin, it didn't seem to be working.  
  
If Harry said anything else afterwards, it was completely drowned out by his own tears. For a good few minutes he continued to sob against Hermione, as she gently rubbed his back and rocked him back and forth, whispering soothing things to him. Ron continued to flutter about them, like the concerned person he was, trying to offer cheerful things to his friend that fell quite spectacularly upon deaf ears.  
  
After what seemed to be an eternity of mindless sobbing (which in truth was barely a couple minutes' worth), Harry's jumbled thoughts managed to form the following: thank God there was no one else in the common room with them, or else he'd leave Hogwarts on his own out of sheer embarrassment, instructions from Dumbledore or not. Sniffling, Harry internally debated whether or not he should pull away from Hermione's hug, or continue to hide his face in her mounds of extremely useful hair.  
  
"Sorry," he muttered quietly, his breath hitching here and there. Gently, Hermione assured him that it was just fine. By this time, Ron had given up on his well meaning but far less received pacing, and had knelt beside Hermione.  
  
"It could always be worse, right Harry? I mean, you could always be forced to go with Snape," Ron said, hoping that his small smile was, for the meantime, infectious. It wasn't. Slowly and meaningfully, Harry turned his tear-streaked face to look at Ron.  
  
The smile disappeared off of the Weasley boy's features.  
  
"Dearest God. Dumbledore's a sadist," Ron stated, his jaw slackening from the current lack of control in facial movement area concerning him for the time being. He shook his head. "But that doesn't - "  
  
" - make any sense?" Harry helpfully finished for his friend, wiping at his nose with his sleeve. "That's what I thought, too. But Dumbledore says that Snape'd be the best one at protecting me, or something. I kinda tuned myself out around then, I don't know."  
  
"What about Professor Oubley? Wouldn't it make more sense if he took you instead? His subject's Defense Against the Dark Arts, he's unbiased, he has a *soul*, for starters," Ron pointed out. Hermione shook her head.  
  
"Professor Oubley looks as if he weighs about sixty pounds. He's more in danger of falling through a crack in the floor than anything else," she pointed out, one arm still around Harry's shoulders, comfortingly.  
  
"And he d-doesn't know Voldemort like Snape does," Harry finished off; taking off his glasses, he rubbed at his tired eyes.  
  
"There's a *reason* Snape knows Voldemort like Snape does. Hello? Does anybody recall the tattoo that git's got on his arm?"Ron said, gesticulating his point with his hands. Hermione tutted.  
  
"Ron, for the last time - and I swear that this *is* the last time I'll ever say this to you without following up with physical assault - Snape is *not* working for Voldemort. He's saved Harry's life before, Dumbledore trusts him, he's in the Order of the Phoenix, what more proof do you want?" she explained. Ron bit his lip.  
  
"Fine. He's not working for Voldemort. But he's still a bastard and I hate his hair." Quietly, Hermione sighed.  
  
"Yes, Ron, we know that."  
  
"And I hate Malfoy's hair, too."  
  
"We know that too, Ron."  
  
"What's with Slytherin hair and the fact that it sucks?"  
  
"I don't know, and now is hardly the time to be discussing this, anyway." Ron looked over at Harry, who was still busy scrubbing at his quickly puffing, semi-pink eyes. He sighed in defeat.  
  
"You're right, Hermione," Ron conceded. Hermione looked a bit proud of herself.  
  
"I know." She turned to Harry, and offered him a comforting smile. "I'm sure it doesn't seem like it now, but I think Dumbledore is just trying to do what's best." Harry ran a hand through his thick hair, and listened to his shuddery expulsion of pent-up breath. He put his glasses back on, and hoped that the lenses didn't magnify his swollen eyes overmuch.  
  
"That's what I keep telling myself. It's just that. . .well. . .Hogwarts is the only place I've ever really considered my home; and you two are my best and, practically, *only* friends. I have to leave everything behind - and to top it all off, apparently Voldemort's starting his rise to power again. It's just too much to handle all at once," he honestly explained, glancing up every now and then, as if to see if his answer was gaining some sort of acceptance with said friends. Hermione knotted her eyebrows in what was, Harry assumed, some kind of show of worried pity.  
  
"Harry, don't talk like that. It's hardly as if we'll never see each other again," she said soothingly.  
  
"That's right - you could always come to The Burrow for Christmas; and if that greasy old bastard won't let you, then we'll just kill him and take you anyway!" Ron told him with a smile. Harry stared at him for a moment, a little shocked (if not faintly amused) by the thought of Ron Weasley attempting to assassinate Severus Snape.  
  
"That's, uh. . . kind of you, Ron, but it's not that simple. This is about Voldemort; any contact with you could mean danger, and the last thing I want is to put your lives at risk, just because I get a little homesick. It's not worth it." Quietly, Harry disengaged himself from Hermione's warm embrace, with was further aided by the close proximity of the nearby fire burning away in the hearth.  
  
"But we've helped you face Voldemort before, remember? It's not like we're strangers to him, or something," Ron said, watching as Harry stood up and straightened his robes. He sniffled once again; he'd attempted to hide it by turning his head away slightly, but the fact that it was so painfully obvious Harry was trying to hide his action in the first place only made things seemingly worse.  
  
"It's not the same, Ron. It's. . . 'before' was stupidity. Don't you realize how easily you could've been killed, or worse?" Imploringly, and with an intensity that flashed through only his eyes, Harry faced Ron once more. "I don't even know what 'or worse' is, but I'm sure Voldemort is far more than just capable of it. And whatever it is, I couldn't stand to see it happen to you." He looked over at Hermione. "Or you."  
  
"Now that I think about it, I. . . I really shouldn't be so upset that I'm leaving, should I? Me wanting to stay, that's just selfishness; you two, and the rest of the school, are more important than what makes me happy."  
  
There was an extremely long silence that followed Harry's relatively quiet revelation. Hermione was, astonishingly, at a loss for words, and Ron seemed disinclined at the moment to chirp in with anything of his own. The air around them seemed thick, like unevenly whipped batter not quite ready for the oven.  
  
Harry sighed.  
  
"I'm going to bed. I need sleep for tomorrow," he said dully; he looked up at Hermione and Ron, feeling oddly young at the moment. He paused briefly, before going over to his friends and wrapping his arms around them.  
  
"I'll miss you," he whispered. Without another glance at them (he couldn't, lest he wanted to start the damned waterworks again), he half- jogged up the stairs, leaving his rather dumbfounded best friends alone in the common room once more.  
  
~*~  
  
It was really quite tough, trying to get to sleep that night. All of Harry's nervousness, anger, and fear about the next day basically kept a steady flow of adrenaline pumping through his veins; roughly, he tossed and turned in the sheets, attempting to find a comfortable position to finally rest in, but found instead the fact that it wasn't working worth a damn.  
  
Whenever he managed to actually drift off into a fitful sort of sleep, he'd find himself awake within the hour. Like the instructions on a shampoo bottle, Harry dutifully repeated said exercise, since he found it necessary - close eyes, dream about horrible things, wake up in cold sweat, repeat. Certainly not as enjoyable as lathering and rinsing, not to mention more exhausting and time consuming, but it was basically the same thing.  
  
Harry stared up at the ceiling. Oh, sure, maybe he never got much sleep as a general rule; after all, insomnia had plagued him since he was but a wee lad of eight. However, it didn't mean that it annoyed him any less. Sleepless nights were always extremely long, utterly boring, and while he probably could have been doing something constructive (like a puzzle), the thought of even getting up was just too much to bear. It was a horrible catch-22.  
  
So there he stayed, basically immobile, continuously staring upwards. He'd previously thought that, if there were an upside to his outburst of words and tears in the common room, it would be that he was so emotionally drained that he'd fall right asleep. Wrong, of course. Sleep was a cruel, cruel mistress.  
  
Deeply, he sighed. He knew that he desperately needed his rest for upcoming trials and tribulations that no doubt awaited him, but his body refused to follow his screaming inner voice of "GET THE FUCK ASLEEP!", for some bizarre reason that Harry once again blamed on those stupid Fates. Would bad luck ever cease? He figured that, at least in the immediate future, it most certainly would not.  
  
He chewed on his bottom lip. Quietly, he propped himself up on his elbows, and looked around. Everything was dark and rather fuzzy, like a tacky velvet painting from the 60's. Reaching over to his bedside table, Harry plucked his glasses from its resting place on the wood, and slid them on. The fuzziness gave way to decided non-fuzziness, which did a little bit to calm his jittering, seemingly hyper-caffeinated nerves. It was a small comfort that, at least, his glasses hadn't magically stopped working.  
  
Propping himself up on his forearms, Harry looked at his surroundings. To his left, Neville was sleeping as soundly as one could basically hope to sleep, though his snores were as loud as the Knight Bus when driven drunk. It had happened before. Or, at least, Harry *thought* the man to be drunk, since he was slurring his words and kept calling him "such a pretty girl".  
  
To his right slept Seamus. His snores and sleeping patterns were nothing extraordinary, either. Harry always figured that the worst part of insomnia was the utterly crushing boredom. He stared ahead at a fixed point on the wall for a good moment or two, before realizing that fixed points on walls were about as interesting as a senior citizen during bingo night. Inwardly, Harry shuddered - one night, long ago, Grandma Dursley had come over to stay for a while, and demanded that one of the family members escort her to the local Bingo Palace. Papa and Mama Bear obviously had better things to do, and Duddykins was far too preoccupied with some porn he had found on the Internet, so Harry was forced to go. When he came home, he reeked of facial powder, oregano, and Chanel Number Five.  
  
'Oh, great, I'm reminiscing about my childhood. I better distract myself with something,' Harry thought dully, sighing as he did. Honestly, thinking about his time with the family Dursley *was* rather painful - pain stirred up anger, and anger generally rustled up a bad mood for him.  
  
He'd been in quite a few bad moods for the last year.  
  
Harry fiddled with the blankets as he sat up. It wasn't that he *wanted* to be so crabby with everyone; he knew that he'd offended both Hermione and Ron on more than one occasion, but sometimes he really couldn't help it. After everything that had gone on, how could he pretend everything was okay? He honestly couldn't be expected to act chipper and cheery like some damned idiot all the time.  
  
"Not that I ever did," he whispered to the darkness and the sleeping forms around him. He looked down.  
  
At least he was innocent before. He was so naïve - and even though it had only been a few years, it felt like ages ago that he was such a way. Everything always turned out okay - Voldemort was a threat, but in a fantastical sort of way; Harry knew, deep down, that he'd win and come out on top. He just wasn't aware of the price that would have to be paid in the future.  
  
Cedric and Sirius. Two names that, alone, could keep him awake for days on end. He'd managed to find some comfort and knowledge in the fact that Dumbledore knew what he was doing, and that he had a plan, because he was Dumbledore; the omniscient and omnipotent one. It turned out he was fallible, after all.  
  
'It all figures,' Harry thought as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. 'Nothing ever works out quite right for me, because I'm Harry Potter - it's all tit for tat in the end.'  
  
With that thought in mind, his bare feet touched the ground, which was still rather cool despite the carpet covering the stone floor. Stretching and working out the kinks in his limbs, Harry shuffled towards the bathrooms, going past the door to the prefect's room, where Ron was currently slumbering.  
  
He paused in his tracks, and backed up a little so that he was staring at the wooden door. Inside, his best friend slept (probably quite soundly), comfortable in his bed, with nothing but trivial cares to keep him company. It's true that he'd always envied Ron to a degree - Harry grew up as, practically, an only child, because Dudley could hardly be considered the brotherly (never mind cousinly) type.  
  
And then, there was Ron, whose family was as large and good-natured as a family could possibly be. Leaning a bit against the door to the prefect's room, Harry came to the conclusion that, yes, he considered the Weasleys to be more of a family to him than the Dursleys; although, granted, that wasn't very hard. Hard or not, Ron and his family always treated him as if he was one of them - Mrs. Weasley worried and fretted over him like a son, and while that was certainly very nice of her, it also seemed to magnify the fact that Harry himself had nothing of the sort.  
  
After all, dead parents generally were not very nurturing.  
  
Harry took in a breath and, keeping his thoughts as black as his current pair of boxer shorts, he made his way into the washroom. He turned on the tap, and splashed some water onto his face; repeating this action a few times, the stark cold of the water made the already cool air in the school that much chillier against his skin. The droplets that Harry didn't manage to catch with a towel trailed down his cheeks, and continued to slide down his skin, leaving in their wake a trail of nigh-icy residue.  
  
He breathed out deeply, and looked up in the mirror. Yes, he looked like hell, and no, he didn't much care. After all, it wasn't as if he didn't care about his appearance, it was just that he certainly wasn't about to go out and see someone important, or something of the like. The first time he went out with Cho Chang, Harry had spent nearly an hour in the bathrooms beforehand, primping and preening and generally cursing the fact he had found not one, but two pimples. He expelled his breath noisily.  
  
"That's life, eh?" he said to his reflection, smirking a little. "Puberty and being a teenager sums it up perfectly. I mean, we finally get over the fact that girls aren't icky, and we actually want to *impress* them, and what happens? We enter the most awkward stage in our lives, and our faces explode." He huffed angrily, and bent down to splash more water on his face.  
  
"Nature's a bitch, isn't she?"  
  
Were Harry above such behaviour, he wouldn't have jumped up out of shock, choked on the tap water, and stumbled back only to fall onto his arse. Alas, due to the fact that it was going on three-thirty in the morning, and Harry was an easily excited young man, such was the exact case at hand. Spluttering a little and blushing only slightly out of sheer embarrassment, Harry looked over to the direction of where the voice had come from.  
  
"Ron!" he exclaimed from his place on the stone floor, "Jesus, what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?" Harry's best friend simply smiled mischievously.  
  
"Nahh, you're too hearty for that. See, if I really wanted to give you a heart attack, I would've electrocuted you. But I won't do that, 'cause I'm too nice," Ron replied, leaning against the doorway to the bathrooms. His neatly pressed prefect's robe was tied over his pajamas, and he was wearing a curious pair of bear claw slippers that looked terribly comfortable.  
  
"Well I'm glad. Having to add you to my list of people who want to kill me wouldn't be fun. There isn't be much room left," Harry said after taking in a few slightly shaky breaths. Ron outstretched his hand, and Harry accepted it, allowing the boy to pull him up.  
  
"I'm sure you'd be able to squeeze me in there between You-Know-Who and Draco Malfoy. Though being on anything that involves You-Know-Who and Draco Malfoy would sadly make me vomit," he stated, accompanied of course with a smile. Harry couldn't help but offer a smile in return. "So, do you normally talk to the mirror? Because I doubt it's a very interesting conversation partner." Harry groaned.  
  
"You saw me?" Ron chuckled lightly.  
  
"Well, yeah. Though I gotta admit, I agree with you. The minute I got my very first crush - well, the moment I *realized* it was a crush - my face decided it'd be fun to fill itself up with spots. Messy little buggers, zits." Harry grimaced.  
  
"I didn't need to know that."  
  
"Nope, and that's why I told you. Anyway, I'm guessing you can't sleep?" Ron asked, going back over to the wall to his previous act of leaning against it. Harry sighed.  
  
"Tonight and every other night for the past two weeks, yeah. I hate insomnia," Harry muttered, crossing his arms over his chest, choosing to also lean against an inanimate object, said object of choice being the separator between two cubicles.  
  
"Why don't you research a spell to help with it?" Ron inquired.  
  
"I did, but it said that I'd also run the risk of putting myself into a coma. And, with my luck. . ."  
  
"Ah. I see. And Vegetable Harry would not be a Fun Harry."  
  
"No, he wouldn't. And first years would come and poke me with their wands, or something. It'd be horrible."  
  
"No way, me'n Hermione would fend them off with pointy things. And since they'd be first years, we'd do it anyway, whether you were comatose or not." Harry raised his eyebrows a little.  
  
"You mean just you would do that. I can't picture Hermione chasing first years around with pointy things," he said. Ron shrugged his shoulders.  
  
"Stranger things have happened."  
  
"Oh? Like what?"  
  
"Well," Ron started, oddly deciding to look down a little bit. "Like you having to leave Hogwarts."  
  
Ron's decision to look away from Harry decidedly became less odd once the words had left Ron's mouth. Harry shifted uncomfortably; there was a rather pregnant pause that clung to the suddenly uncomfortably silent air. After said pause had reached its third trimester or so, Harry simply walked back over to the sinks, and turned the tap back on.  
  
"Yeah. Like me having to leave Hogwarts, thanks for reminding me," Harry said, unable to completely wash away the bitterness in his voice, like any of the remaining dirt on his hands with the water now flowing down the drain in the sink. Ron bit his lip, and Harry found it a curious experience to watch it happen in the reflection of the mirror.  
  
"Harry, I know you're upset about it - "  
  
"Oh, really? What gave you *that* impression?" Harry cut him off, the sarcasm in his voice weighing each word down like syrup that is far too thick to be tasty. Ron really hated Harry's uncanny propensity for mood swings. With a definitive, short sigh, Ron continued on.  
  
"Would you just listen to me? There's a reason I can't sleep, and it has to do with you, so you're going to hear me out whether you like it or not!" Ron cleared his throat. "Feel free to yell once I'm finished." Harry furrowed his eyebrows. For one, he'd never heard Ron use such a, well, *assertive* tone with him before; secondly, why was Ron in the dorm bathrooms?  
  
"Before you, uh, start, answer me one question, will you?" Ron shrugged.  
  
"Shoot."  
  
"Why are you in here?"  
  
"Because I'm talking to you. It's too cold outside."  
  
"No, Ron; don't the prefects get their own washroom? Why'd you come here?"  
  
At this, Ron smiled a little sheepishly.  
  
"I figured you'd be in here," he replied; any sort of hint of anger that had been in Ron's voice seemed to have disappeared entirely, which left Harry blinking a bit stupidly.  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"Well, I've been up all night because I was worried about you. It's what friends do, after all. Anyway, I assumed that you probably couldn't sleep either, being mentally tormented as you were, so I figured that, logically, you'd be in here."  
  
Again, Harry blinked. Were there, really, *any* bits of logic in what Ron had said, Harry obviously missed it.  
  
"You figured I'd be in the bathrooms?" Ron nodded. "Can I ask why?" The redhead shrugged.  
  
"The dorms aren't very private; knowing you, I thought you'd want to go somewhere quiet to vent, or angst, or whatever. That, and we always seem to meet in bathrooms for anything important."  
  
Harry found himself repeating his earlier actions of blinking once more. He had to give Ron quite a bit of credit; the dorms themselves weren't terribly accommodating to those who enjoyed privacy, and to be sure, Harry enjoyed keeping to himself. The Boy Who Lived found himself staring at his friend, who kept a small smile on his face.  
  
And by God, they *did* always meet in bathrooms.  
  
"Wow," Harry said.  
  
"Scary, isn't it? Public restrooms are a powerful place, I guess. Anyway, that's why I came here." Harry closed his eyes, and ran his hand through his hair.  
  
"I guess I appreciate the company," Harry said quietly. "After all, it'll be a while before I see you again, huh?"  
  
"Well, ah, that's sort of the real reason why I came here in the first place."  
  
Ron's tone sounded dangerously unnerved. Harry opened his eyes, and looked straight at his friend.  
  
"Ron. . .?"  
  
"Me and Hermione were talking, after you went up to bed. We're both worried about you, and she hates the idea of leaving you alone in the care of Snape, of all the people in the world, as much as I do. I mean, she doesn't not trust him or anything," Ron said quickly, "But he's just a. . . well, he's a jerk-faced bastard. And generally, we don't like jerk-faced bastards." Harry looked at him strangely.  
  
"You're not making good on your promise before to kill him, are you? Because as much as I appreciate the thought, I don't think - "  
  
"No, no, I'm not going to try to *kill* him, what do you take me for?" With a deep breath, Ron un-leaned himself from the wall, and walked up to Harry. He grinned.  
  
"We're going with you. Me and Hermione, both."  
  
Harry's eyes widened.  
  
"You're *what* - ?!"  
  
"We're going with you," Ron repeated proudly. "We figured that, if you have to leave Hogwarts, then why not take the best parts of Hogwarts with you? Us being the best parts, of course, because stone's really hard to carry."  
  
Harry wanted to say a million things at once; unfortunately, since all thoughts were wont to get out all at the exact same time, his mouth and tongue could barely produce a series of incredulous sounds that all halted, one after the other. Half-formed beginnings of "how", "what", "but", and "fuck" lived and died, with short intervals in between.  
  
"Don't sound so shocked. You think we'd just let you go off on your own, after all we've been through? Come on. Hogwarts isn't worth staying at if you're not around! Lord knows our Quidditch team will crash and burn because we're losing you, and I really don't want to have to watch that - and who else am I going to talk to about whatever I happen to be thinking about at any given moment in time? Dean? I think not. He doesn't have your patience when it comes to me. Besides, he gets distracted by anything with breasts."  
  
"But - "  
  
"Don't even get me started on Hermione. You should've seen how upset she was after you went upstairs; she was about ready to cry herself, and you know how bad I am at dealing with stuff like that. Without you around, I think Hermione and I would end up killing each other, or. . ." Ron, at that point in time, decided to trail off. His cheeks also seemed to flush a little. Harry raised his eyebrows.  
  
"Or?" he prodded. Ron looked over to his side, coughed, and scratched at his head.  
  
"Or, uh, nothing. Anyway, the point is, we both care about you a lot, and. . .well, we're too clingy to just letcha go without a fight." He smiled again.  
  
Harry's eyes, which had widened a little, continuously rested on the boy before him. There he was, smiling away like he always did, and after the way he'd acted to him and Hermione. . .  
  
He felt floored. Completely, utterly floored. Not knowing quite what to say, Harry's mouth moved without so much as a peep for a few moments, before he realized that he actually had to think of something to say before he could put vocal action into motion. Shutting his jaw, Harry looked downwards, and breathed in deeply.  
  
"You'd. . .you'd do that for me? You'd just up and leave? Even Hermione?" Ron laughed a bit.  
  
"What'd I say before? Stranger things have happened." Harry shook his head, still feeling mighty incredulous.  
  
"You shouldn't - " he began, but Ron promptly cut him off.  
  
"I should, because it wouldn't feel right if I stayed here. Hermione and I both feel that way. Believe you me, we talked this over; and if Hermione thinks this is a good idea, then you haven't got a chance in hell of stopping us, now do you?"  
  
There was a pause. And just to stop himself from crying, Harry laughed.  
  
"I guess I don't, huh?" He looked up, and Ron continued to smile.  
  
"Nope. Besides, we've helped you out of all sorts of jams before, right? What's the worst that could happen?"  
  
~*~  
  
Snape awoke with a start. He couldn't remember whatever it was that he was dreaming about, but by the way his heart was pounding, he new that it was nothing remotely good. Sitting up in his large bed, he stared ahead in the dark.  
  
Why did he just get the feeling that something very, very bad had just happened?  
  
~*//*~  
  
Hee. ^_^ Humour and bits of potential foreshadowing are horrendously fun.  
  
Well, I do hope that you enjoyed this chapter. Um, I realize that I tend to pace things rather. . . well, slowly. . . but it's just my way. =/ At least it's getting somewhere! Yattah!  
  
Like it? Hate it? Or choice c), "ehn"? Whatever your feelings, please review. The amount of feedback on this story thus far has been nothing short of awesome, and it'd be even more awesomely awesome were it to be kept up. ^_^; What can I say, I like reviews. Constructive crit is deeply, deeply appreciated - hell, even if it's just praise (or, uh, hatred. . .), specifics make the world go happily 'round.  
  
Special thanks to Venus for your reviews - your points have been taken into consideration, and I hope that you sort of like this chapter a bit more than the last one. XD; More special thanks to Naomi, because without you, I doubt this story would've happened in the first place.  
  
Happy trails.  
  
~Chibikat 


	5. Isn't Three a Crowd?

Disclaimer: J.K.Rowling is British. I am not British. J.K. Rowling is rich. I am not rich. The K in J.K. Rowling stands for Kathleen. The K in my name stands for Kathleen. ...but despite that, I'm still not J.K. Rowling.  
  
...or *am* I?  
  
No. I'm not. I swear. Lawyers can back away now.  
  
Rating: PG-13 still. Next chapter might bump it up for violence and weirdness and yay.  
  
Author's Notes: Whoo hoo, I'm actually keeping my promise of getting this chapter up before November finishes! =D Incroyable, oui? Oui. Anyway, I will admit that this chapter is shorter than the other ones I've written thus far, but it's just as important, I swear. Also, there's more Draco. And Snape. Aww yeah.  
  
Just like to specially thank Naomi for sort of beta-ing this for me, giving me her constructive crit, and generally inflating my ego when no such thing really needed to be done. She is wonderful. Also, thanks a bunch to Silver Phoenix25, because she is one of my many gods. Go read her stuff. Like, now.  
  
Have I Missed Anything?: Alan Rickman is a fox. Come on. It's not a Chibikat author's note without mention of Alan Rickman in it. Admit it.  
  
That aside. Brace yourselves for the horror, the terror, the sheer monstrosity that is...  
  
~*~  
  
Finality  
  
~*~  
  
The room was, for lack of a better descriptive, silent, though in a rather disgruntled sort of way.  
  
The metallic clinking and tittering objects on and around Dumbledore's were clinking and tittering away, creating a background hum of white noise that did nothing but carry the oppressive silence to further heights. A positively grandfatherly grandfather clock tick-tocked near the back of the room, keeping the time and pace of the current lack of conversation. Smiling walls of brick contained the sound and un-sound quite brilliantly, allowing some of the whispers of the various portraits dotting Dumbledore's office to be carried to the ears of the only two corporeal beings sitting in what, to the untrained and uninformed eye, seemed to be almost relaxed poses.  
  
However, both men, one old and one just barely of age to really be considered a part of the 'men' group, were far from having a friendly chat over tea and scones.  
  
Actually, Dumbledore *had* offered him tea and scones; but, as the headmaster suspected, he refused quite bluntly. It was really a shame. Dumbledore had brewed some rather excellent herbal tea. The headmaster sipped at it from his cup, while the...boy, young man, man, combination of all three...watched, clearly not amused.  
  
"I'd really like to know why you felt the need to call me up here. It's rather early, and breakfast starts soon," Draco Malfoy said, his arms currently making good use of the only classified function of the arm rests on his chair. Idly, Dumbledore replaced his teacup on the saucer. Ah yes, the Chinese certainly knew their stuff when it came to tea.  
  
"Of course, Mr. Malfoy," he said amiably enough, with a smile that perfectly matched his voice. "I wouldn't want to deprive you of pancakes." Draco physically forced himself from disdainfully rolling his eyes at his headmaster. He'd been doing it so much lately, anyway, that his eye sockets had begun to hurt. Damn the amount of idiots at Hogwarts.  
  
Dumbledore clasped his wrinkled hands on his desk, still looking at Draco with a most friendly countenance.  
  
"I understand that you recently received an owl from your father, is that correct?" he asked. Draco elegantly arched an eyebrow; an ability that, all on its own, basically classified the entire Slytherin population as just that - Slytherin, and quite proud of it.  
  
"And I understand that it's illegal for the school to interfere with students' post?" Draco responded. Dumbledore simply continued to smile.  
  
"You understand correctly, my dear boy; however, it's hardly illegal for your parents to inform me, via the same owl and a different piece of parchment, of their wish to take you out of school for a period of time," the headmaster said matter-of-factly, yet leaving out any note of condescending, which was quite a feat in and of itself. Draco said nothing, but allowed a diluted sneer to appear on his face.  
  
Dumbledore quietly sipped at his tea again, and picked up a piece of parchment; telltale, elegant handwriting covered the sheet, along with a signature and a broken wax family seal on the outside of it. The seal, of course, was green. Sliding his half-moon glasses up a little bit on the bridge of his nose, he quickly scanned the letter.  
  
"Now, it says here that your father is considering taking you out of classes for up to a month, on account of...family matters?" Dumbledore looked back up at the student before him, overtop the rim of his spectacles. "A month is quite a long time, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
"If you're worried about my academics, then I can assure you that catching up won't be an issue," Draco replied lazily.  
  
"Of course it won't, you're a bright student, Mr. Malfoy. Top marks in quite a few of your classes," Albus said. Putting down the letter, Dumbledore once again turned his attention to his herbal tea, which was, sadly, cooling to room temperature as time passed.  
  
There was a momentary lull of silence. Draco looked at the headmaster oddly.  
  
"So if schoolwork isn't the problem, it begs the question of why I'm up here in the first place," Malfoy stated evenly, crossing his arms over his chest, his gray eyes trying to bore through Dumbledore's lightly casual expression. Dumbledore simply took another sip of his tea, and considered biting into a scone.  
  
"To inquire about your welfare," he said honestly, tilting his head a little. Were Draco of the mood, he would've looked surprised.  
  
"To inquire about my welfare?" the boy repeated. Dumbledore nodded.  
  
"I may be old, Mr. Malfoy, but I am far from senile. Well," he reconsidered, "Depending on whom you ask, I suppose that answer varies." There was a twinkle in Dumbledore's eye as he said this; however, Draco simply stared back at him.  
  
"I'm sure it does. Though I'm not so sure if your 'inquiry about my welfare', as you so put it, will have a point in the near future," he said simply, bordering on being outright belligerent. Dumbledore sighed deeply and, almost as if admitting defeat, he nodded once.  
  
"Alas, it does. This 'family matter' of yours; this certainly isn't the first one, Mr. Malfoy. Your parents seemed to find it necessary to take you out of classes for certain amounts of time at quite a few intervals last year as well," Dumbledore explained. "Now, being gone for so long, and the year has just started; I fear that you are missing out on quite a bit, and not just academic-wise."  
  
"Oh? And here I was, thinking that your heartfelt concerns only went out to Gryffindors," Draco replied, nonchalance barely masking a distinct edge in his voice. Very, very slightly, Dumbledore raised his eyebrows.  
  
"I care for all my students, Mr. Malfoy. You've simply seemed rather...how shall I put it," Dumbledore mused, turning his eyes upward in thought.  
  
"Distracted, as of late?" he finished, looking back down at the boy before him. Draco blinked slowly.  
  
"Family matters tend to be important," he replied curtly. Dumbledore tilted his head slightly, wispy white hair shifting itself over his shoulders.  
  
"Mr. Malfoy, if there is something that you feel the need to discuss - "  
  
At this, Draco seemed to react; pursing his lips, his eyes narrowed considerably, his body posture suddenly becoming rather defensive.  
  
"I believe," Draco annunciated clearly, effectively cutting Dumbledore off, "that my family business is certainly none of your concern."  
  
There was another moment of unkempt silence. The grandfather timepiece tolled eight o'clock. Dumbledore's friendly countenance slipped away slowly as he took another, rather long, sip of tea. His features hardened slightly.  
  
"Very well then, Mr. Malfoy," Dumbledore conceded, nodding his head a little bit. "As I am certainly not a part of your family, your business is entitled to remain your own."  
  
"As well it should. Am I excused?" he asked, unable to hide the utter bitterness in his voice. Dumbledore nodded, and even managed smile, just a little bit.  
  
"You are excused, Mr. Malfoy."  
  
Albus watched as the Slytherin got up from the leather chair, crossing over to the exit of his office; the phoenix staircase obligingly descended, taking Draco Malfoy with it. His smile faded completely, and he watched the stairs disappear. He continued to stare at the now-inanimate staircase after the boy had left his offices; sipping once again at his tea, Dumbledore found that it suddenly lacked its previous taste.  
  
~*~  
  
Harry Potter was generally not what one would call an early riser. Due to his insomnia (which, he personally thought, should be counted as a physical disability), Harry spent most of his mornings wishing that he could just go back to bed, because he'd finally managed to fall asleep. As the day wore on, though, he would continuously find himself becoming further awake; of course, once the time came that he was actually free to sleep for longer than five hours, it was impossible, because he just could not, for the life of him, keep his eyes closed.  
  
Life was, in a nutshell, a bitch.  
  
Such was the reason why the Boy Who Lived was currently The Boy Desperately In Need of Caffeine. However, more pressing matters than morning stimulation were, sadly, at hand; doing his best to stifle his yawns, Harry slowly walked down the steps leading down from the Gryffindor common room, where generally uncommon people discussed decidedly uncommon topics. Though such uncommonness had become so commonplace, he had to admit that the freakish was, truly, the norm.  
  
Except for now. The weirdness that was Hogwarts - from the enchanted ceiling, to the House Elves, to the students, to the randomly dangerous creatures littering the grounds, to the randomly dangerous professors littering the classrooms...Harry had called it all his own.  
  
'I guess I didn't even realize it,' he thought a bit morosely, waiting patiently for a staircase to swing its way over to the landing he was standing on. 'I suppose I got used to it. It's just so...weird that I have to leave it all behind, now. I know this is my last year, but it's only September - I should still have all the months until summer ahead of me. It's just...it's...!'  
  
"It's not fair," he muttered, vocalizing the last bit of his train of thought. And it was true - it really *wasn't* fair, as far as Harry was concerned. He could remember his first year quite vividly; and, while it was really only six years ago, it felt like so much longer. Harry figured that it was probably due to the fact that he simply felt so much different, now, than he did when he was only a first year. He'd grown so much; not just physically, but...well, in almost every way possible, truth be told.  
  
Harry stepped onto the staircase, walking down it as it proceeded to merrily swing to its desired location. Where it really went, Harry didn't quite care - long ago, he'd found out that most all corridors eventually led to the Great Hall. The ones that didn't were specifically built to entrap wayward students in small, claustrophobia-inducing spaces. Such was the design of Hogwarts. This probably explained the rising obesity and paranoia problems that plagued the student body.  
  
Harry closed his eyes and let out a short breath as the stairs fit into its place against the landing it decided to connect with. The boy knew that he shouldn't be wallowing in such depressive thoughts, but it was just so easy; why paste on a fake smile, when it would end up chipping and cracking away, like the cheap symbolic glue that stuck it there in the first place? To admit that something was terribly disheartening wasn't being pessimistic, in Harry's experience - usually, it was just true.  
  
But oh no. He couldn't just acknowledge the truth; if he did, then somehow the Daily Prophet would find out, and the headlines would read something along the lines of "Potter Gives Up On Life! There Is No Hope For Survival After All!". Underneath said article would be a handy application form for the Death Eaters: "Please state name and previous occupation; what do you think are your best qualities?; why would *you* be a good candidate for the Death Eaters?; have you ever killed a person? If yes, then why? If no, please kill someone now." This would then be followed with a skill testing question, and possibly a coupon for something free.  
  
Harry hated how it seemed the fate of the entire Wizarding World rested on him. Couldn't people think for their own bloody selves? He swore, if another stupid little first year came up to him and asked if he was "really Harry Potter", he was just going to deck him, right then and there. Now, if the first year was a girl, he'd probably just say something horribly scathing; because while he was completely against physically hitting a girl, there were no boundaries on emotional and mental abuse.  
  
'I shouldn't be thinking like this,' he chidingly thought. 'Everything's for the greater good, the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, etcetera, etcetera.'  
  
He bit his lip.  
  
'But it's still *my* life...'  
  
Harry shook his head, continuing to walk down the hall he managed to find himself in.  
  
'Just stop thinking, or something. This isn't getting you anywhere, Harold.' He sighed. 'What an awful name, Harold...why couldn't mum just name me after dad? James is a perfectly respectable and nice name. Harold sounds like something a cat would cough up after washing itself.' He couldn't help but smirk wryly to himself, before decidedly thinking that he should just concentrate on what he wanted to ask Dumbledore before breakfast began.  
  
From then on, Harry thought of nothing but Ron and Hermione as he made his way through the various corridors and halls of Hogwarts; though, periodically, he stopped to read some of the captions underneath a few of the portraits he seemed to ignore throughout his educational career. Apparently, an old student (a very old student - as in, 300 years since he graduated) had invented the Patronus spell, shortly after Dementors had first been discovered in the mysterious and wild lands of Quebec. Of course, back then, both Dementors and Quebec were called something very long, very Latin, and very unpronounceable by most of the Wizarding population.  
  
The halls were for the most part empty as Harry continued to walk along. Every now and then, a person would walk by whom he knew, and they'd wave to each other, say a quick "Hey", and maintain whatever it was they were doing before - which, for the most part, was walking to a desired destination. These were the acquaintances: the people that Harry was sure were perfectly nice, but never really got around to becoming friends with. They'd associate in class, sometimes chat in the halls about completely trivial topics, and then they'd all be on their merry way. In all fairness, Harry already had two best friends...and they could be a handful as it was.  
  
Just like now. It wasn't that he didn't appreciate what they were trying to do - after all, leaving Hogwarts with no one but Professor Snape to keep him company was not his idea of a good time. However, their outright demand to go with him put him in something of a precarious position; on one hand, he didn't want to let his friends down by saying no, but on the other, Harry knew how dangerous it would be for them to tag along. It would be a bigger target for Voldemort and his cronies; and, were they ever to be hurt or...God forbid, killed...Harry knew it would, ultimately, be his fault. How could he live with the guilt? Just imagining the look on Mrs. Weasley's face were she to find out that her youngest son was dead was enough to want to make Harry climb into a deep, dark hole and never emerge again.  
  
Be that as it may, Harry knew that Hermione and Ron were smart people, and they knew what they were doing. They thought it through, knew the consequences, but decided it would be far more beneficial to them to follow Harry than stay at school.  
  
...well, at least Hermione did. Ron probably just got angry at something and then ate some ice cream.  
  
The only man who could really decide was Albus Dumbledore. After all, it was his idea in the first place for Harry to go off on his own to save the rest of the student body. It would be him that would give the final and definitive answer, surely.  
  
Harry crossed another unknown hallway; well, it would've been unknown, had it not looked like every other bleeding hallway in the castle. Sure, he understood that Hogwarts was an ancient and proud institution, but would it be too much to ask for a "You Are Here" sign every now and then? No wonder half the first years ended up lost in a random cupboard, and found only days later.  
  
Something of the like had, actually, happened to him and Ron; the very first day of first year, instead of finding Transfiguration class, they ended up at what was, disturbingly enough, a third year sex ed class. Now, of course, that was when they still thought girls were "icky" and such, so it was twice as scarring to hear Professor Binns of all people droning on about "vulva this" and "testicles that". Ron had nearly fainted. After all, he'd come from such a sheltered family...  
  
Busy that he was reliving such an utterly traumatizing memory, Harry's focus on the present and, consequentially, what was directly in front of him, had slackened dramatically. Enough, at least, so that he was taken quite forcefully by that bastard people called "surprise", when he solidly collided into another human being. Luckily, though, the bump wasn't so forceful as to send the two unfortunate people flying into opposite corners of the school. Shaking his head a little, Harry muttered a "sorry" without looking up.  
  
"Are your God-awful glasses not cutting it anymore, Potter? Or was that just plain stupidity on your part?"  
  
Harry inwardly groaned. Great. Wonderful. Peachy. Of all the people in Hogwarts that he could have physically run into, it just *had* to be:  
  
"Malfoy." The Gryffindor said the Slytherin's name curtly, looking up at him. Ah, yes. The blond bombshell himself, sneering and generally looking rather pissed off with everything as usual, was looking right back at him.  
  
"Congratulations, Potter. You remembered my name. You get a gold star," Draco sarcastically said.  
  
"Shut up, ferret, I'm not in the mood," Harry replied, rubbing his temples, feeling a headache coming on. In turn, Draco bristled a bit at the mention of the animal he was transfigured into a few years ago. He cleared his throat a bit; which, to Harry, signified something of a small win on his part.  
  
"And you're seeing Dumbledore because...? What, is he planning on making a school holiday based around you? Sadly, it wouldn't surprise me. I'm sure this time next year, first years will be wishing each other 'Happy Harry Potter Day', or something equally absurd." Harry smirked.  
  
"Jealous much?" Elegantly, Draco rolled his eyes.  
  
"The day I'm jealous of an idiot with a fan club is the day I commit ritual suicide. For all the attention you're getting, I could *buy* my own set of worshippers," the Malfoy boy stated, crossing his arms, his expression as cold as a block of frozen lake water. Harry, getting fed up with the blossoming bickering as it was, wanted to get it done as quickly as possible, but also didn't want to cheaply cop out of their fight. Ron would never let him live it down, were he to find out.  
  
"I'm surprised you haven't. Or, at least, I'm surprised you haven't gotten Daddy to buy you some new friends lately. By the way, how *was* Azkaban for him?" Harry asked, his voice filled to the brim with false sincerity and utterly lethal sarcasm. He was faintly amused when Draco's eye twitched at the mention of his father, and nearly laughed when his nemesis tightened his lips into a thin line.  
  
"Fuck you, Potter. You have *no* idea," Draco uttered a bit cryptically. They stared hard at each other for a short time, before the green-clad one of the pair finally sighed sharply, and quickly walked down the hallway, before disappearing completely out of sight.  
  
"Prick," Harry muttered under his breath as he watched him go. Glad that the little debacle finished much quicker than he expected, and even more glad that he had, in a way, sort of won said fight, Harry felt a little bit better. Not much, but just enough to make a smidgen of a difference.  
  
Now that Malfoy was officially gone and, sadly, not exactly forgotten, Harry looked at the stone statue in front of him - it, of course, led to Dumbledore's office.  
  
"Sour lemon tart," he said to the gargoyle statue; and, obligingly, it sunk down under the ground to reveal the stone staircase that was wrapped around an equally stone phoenix. With a bit of a sigh, Harry stepped onto the first stair, and waited patiently as the staircase wound itself back up to the Headmaster's office.  
  
Dumbledore, who had actually been doodling on a piece of parchment, looked up as Harry entered into his office.  
  
"Why hello, Harry, fancy seeing you here!" he greeted warmly. "Do have a seat, won't you?" Harry smiled a little bit back at him, and took a relatively comfy seat opposite Dumbledore and his desk.  
  
"I need to talk to you," Harry said. Dumbledore folded his hands together atop his desk.  
  
"Is it about...?"  
  
"Yeah," the boy answered quickly. He coughed once, and cleared his throat.  
  
How was he going to word this? Harry looked up at Dumbledore, who was patiently looking down at him. He smiled a bit nervously, and looked away.  
  
Silence.  
  
"I do recall you saying that you needed to talk to me, Mr. Potter?" Dumbledore said lightly, "And, I always thought that involved talking. Of course, I could be wrong." The headmaster smiled at Harry, the ever- present twinkle in his eye twinkling away like some sort of mad set of Christmas lights. Harry smiled, a bit sheepishly, back.  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor Dumbledore, it's...just...I'm not quite sure how to put this..."  
  
"In words would be best, Harry," Dumbledore replied warmly. At that moment, Harry couldn't help but feel that his headmaster's predisposition to silliness really was not helping matters at all.  
  
He took in a deep breath. He would have to word this delicately; after all, explanation and coercion were arts that were as meticulous as they were fine.  
  
"Well, um..." No use stalling now. "I told Hermione and Ron about what I have to do so now they know and I know you told me I shouldn't have said anything to anyone but I couldn't keep it from them and now they want to go with me and I don't want to say no and please don't make me go with just Snape!"  
  
...good enough.  
  
In turn, Dumbledore blinked once, and allowed a small, rather benevolent smile to grace his lips, which were almost covered by his moustache and beard. Harry looked down, flushed suddenly with embarrassment - in Harry's opinion, were he himself any more of a babbling idiot, his last name would have to be legally changed to Lockhart.  
  
"My child, " Albus began, "How could you ever hope to keep something such as this from your two closest friends?"  
  
It was Harry's turn to blink. He looked up, his cheeks still a bit flushed.  
  
"Excuse me?" Dumbledore chuckled softly.  
  
"You three are practically inseparable; after all that you three have been through, attempting to divide the three of you up now would just be ludicrous, now wouldn't it?" he asked the boy before him, smiling. Harry nodded a bit dumbly.  
  
"Friends such as the ones you have are indeed very rare, Harry. If they wish to accompany you, I will not do anything to stop them - they are good people, and most importantly, they are loyal to the very marrow of their bones. I could not imagine better traveling companions than they, could you?"  
  
The Gryffindor couldn't help but smile a bit at what Dumbledore was saying, which was all quite true. Ron and Hermione always *had* stuck by him, even when everyone thought he was some sort of vindictive, lying, petty, attention-seeking problem child with far too much time and money on his hands. Oddly enough, it seemed to happen at least once every year.  
  
However, no matter how bad it had gotten, they'd done things in their own little way to help him through; whether it was Ron making fun of Professor Trelawny to cheer Harry up on a particularly gloom-inspiring day, or Hermione offering sound and sagely advice, they'd both always done everything they could for him.  
  
"You're right, Professor Dumbledore. I couldn't imagine better traveling companions," Harry said after a moment, a little smile still on his lips. The headmaster nodded in assent.  
  
"I trust in your judgment, and the judgment of your friends, my boy. I know they're aware of the potential danger in accompanying you, and I know that they can adequately take care of themselves, this I have no fear of." For a moment, an odd look passed over Dumbledore's face, that was almost a cross between unease and...glee? Harry furrowed his eyebrows.  
  
"Professor Dumbledore? What's wrong?" he asked. The headmaster peered over his half-moon glasses at Harry.  
  
"I am just wondering," Albus began, a mischievous smile slowly widening on his wrinkled face, "how Professor Snape will react to this."  
  
~*~  
  
Snape's left eye barely twitched as he looked at the three Gryffindors before him, each with a look of expectance etched on their young faces. Harry's eyes were on the older man, a little wide with both hope and fear, mixed together to create an extremely peculiar sensation in his stomach and, oddly enough, feet. It was almost like the tingling sensation he got when he was on a broom for far too long, or studying in an awkward position; however, this time, instead of making his feet feel like a million tiny needles that were full of mercury, they simply felt numb.  
  
There they all were, gathered in the Potions classroom, which was completely devoid of life except for the three Gryffindors and the one seriously pissed off teacher. Breakfast still had not begun yet, so no wayward students were prone to come in and bother anyone.  
  
He watched as the line that was Snape's lips drew tighter into some sort of pursed demi-line of flesh. Harry knew this wasn't a good sign. Not that eye twitching was, either.  
  
"Absolutely not," Snape stated. Well, to be completely honest, Harry knew that Snape wouldn't exactly be the type to say "Sure, it'll be fun!". To be even more honest than before, Harry was almost glad that Snape *wasn't* that type of man. No, that would be rather disturbing.  
  
"Why not?" Harry asked in return. Granted, it wasn't exactly the sort of comeback that he was looking for, but the intimidating stare that Snape was giving him had the ability to completely erase from his mind anything remotely coherent that could be used as a scathing remark.  
  
"Do you really need it spelled out for you, Potter?" Snape said, countering Harry's question with another question, which really did nothing to help the situation in general.  
  
"If he doesn't, then I do!" Ron stated, in almost a haughty tone. Snape, in turn, glared down at Ron, who shrunk back. "Um, please?" Hermione sighed and muttered something under her breath; and, were she that kind of girl, she would've also rolled her eyes.  
  
"We've helped Harry before with You-Know-Who in the past, after all," Hermione began.  
  
"Six years running!" Ron piped up, effectively cutting Hermione off. She looked at him.  
  
"Do you mind, Ron? I'm trying to explain us into something." He simply smiled back at her, flashing his teeth as he grinned. She stared at him for a moment, then turned to Harry.  
  
"Actually, Harry, Snape may have a point," she said flatly.  
  
"Hey! Now come on Hermione, that's not fair!" exclaimed Ron; he huffed a bit, and crossed his arms in a way that was oddly effeminate. "I swear, you've got the hugest rod stuck up your - "  
  
"Okay, that's enough you two," Harry said, hastily cutting in before Ron managed to incur the wrath of Hermione and further demonstrate to Snape exactly why they shouldn't tag along. He looked up at the Potions master, who did not seem at all amused. Actually, he looked rather smug.  
  
"And to think, *these* are the people whom you choose to associate with, Potter. Savior of the Wizarding World indeed," he drawled easily. Harry set his jaw firmly.  
  
"Don't insult my friends," he said quietly. "Sir." If Snape were at all surprised, he certainly didn't show it.  
  
"And why shouldn't I?" he retorted. "Potter."  
  
"Because they're coming with us, so you better learn to get along," Harry stated, looking squarely up at the man's face. "Professor." This time, Snape's eyes narrowed slightly.  
  
"Don't presume to tell me what to do. I thought this was already discussed, or are you as deaf as you are dumb?" Snape quipped. "Boy."  
  
'This could go on for ages. Damn Slytherins and their pretentious wit,' Harry thought, inwardly groaning. For some reason that he couldn't reasonably attribute anything to, he simply wasn't afraid of Snape's cold gaze, nor his tall demeanor, nor his intimidating sneer, nor his...hair...this time around.  
  
Their bickering having stopped, Hermione and Ron were now watching this exchange with a mix of interest and fear for the life of their mutually best friend were he to continue any farther. So, of course, Harry continued farther.  
  
"They're coming with us, because Dumbledore said they could."  
  
Harry thought he possibly saw something visibly explode within Snape's mind. However, that also could have been a trick of the light.  
  
But he doubted it.  
  
"He didn't," Snape said slowly, his left eye twitching once more.  
  
"I talked to him this morning," Harry replied. Snape closed his eyes, and took in a very deep, very controlled breath.  
  
The Potions classroom was very eerily silent for a moment.  
  
"Um, Professor...?" Hermione asked quietly.  
  
"Go," he said simply.  
  
"Go where?" Ron inquired, blinking a bit owlishly.  
  
"Anywhere but here, you twit. All of you, get out. Now."  
  
Ron and Hermione seemed rather inclined to oblige, and thus turned right around to go; however, Harry stayed where he was, looking at Snape for an extra moment. Hermione, noticing this and not wanting to get in any more pseudo-trouble, reached out and lightly touched Harry's arm - he looked at her, then at Snape, who had his fingers on his temples, as if he were suffering from a migraine of the worst kind. With a resolute expression on his face, Harry turned around, and joined his two friends as they went out the door of the Potions classroom, shutting it behind them.  
  
They walked along the corridor in silence for a moment, until Ron spoke up.  
  
"Hey Harry?"  
  
"Yeah Ron?"  
  
"We're still alive, right?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure we are."  
  
"So let me get this straight - you directly contradicted Snape, and practically told him off, and yet we're walking with unbroken legs and we can still breath without the aid of complicated spells?"  
  
"Looks like it."  
  
Ron whistled in appreciation.  
  
"Bloody brilliant, mate. Let me shake your hand."  
  
And Ron reached over and shook Harry's hand. Harry smirked a bit, as did Hermione.  
  
"What came over you in there, Harry? I've never seen you talk back to a teacher before, never mind Snape of all people," she said, tilting her head curiously. Harry looked over at her; of course, she hadn't ever seen him get royally upset with Snape during Occlumency lessons, and the time he had his tantrum in Dumbledore's office the same year...  
  
Harry shrugged.  
  
"I figure if we're going to have to be around him all the time in a few days, I might as well try to get on even ground, you know? He's not going to be able to give us detentions and all that, so I'll make him be halfway decent to us, even if it kills me."  
  
"And if it *does* kill you, and by it I mean Snape, it completely defeats the purpose of going away from Hogwarts in the first place. It's a win-win situation - we've got immunity," Ron pointed out. He paused for a moment, however. "Of course, he *could* still kill me and 'Mione."  
  
"The difference between you and I, Ron, is that I wouldn't give him a reason to want to murder me," Hermione explained, looking over at Ron. "So there." Ron stuck his tongue out at her, and she simply laughed.  
  
"Oh, grow up, Ron," she chastised lightly.  
  
"I'd rather not, thank you very much," he replied, smirking.  
  
Harry couldn't help but smile himself as he walked along with his friends to breakfast. He felt a tremendously glad that Hermione and Ron were going with him - they'd always be there to relieve the tense situations, and they'd at least get along.  
  
Which was far more than he could ever say for Professor Snape.  
  
~*~  
  
That morning after breakfast, Draco Malfoy had found a carriage outside of Hogwarts; one among many that his father owned, the carriage driver opened the door for the teenager, and he climbed inside. Not too long afterwards, the carriage had begun to move, and so had begun the journey to the Malfoy estate.  
  
Lucius had always told his son that riding in a carriage was simply that much more civilized than riding a broom everywhere; the most common of the common people owned brooms, and even simpletons knew how to work it. Mount, take-off, go where you please. Certainly, landings were a different story, but Lucius was never one to get into such trivial details. No matter that brooms were faster - Lucius would not have his only son parading about the skies to get from one place to the other, like some sort of lowly Mudblood. Quidditch was a different story, though; Quidditch actually required talent and the like, so of course Draco was permitted to play and excel at it.  
  
Draco, however, had never liked riding in carriages. They tended cramped, small, and horribly slow. Amish people got around in carriages. Granted, they weren't as nice as the carriage Draco was currently riding in (black with silver trim, emblazoned with the Malfoy family crest on the door, replete with cushiony insides that were covered in rather nice fabric), but still. And, even though this particular carriage was neither cramped nor small, it was still terribly, terribly slow.  
  
Sighing, he stretched out in the lavish coach, listening idly to the clip- clopping of the thoroughbred horses that pulled the carriage. Draco had always figured his father would go more for the Thestral motif, but...well, for some reason, his family had always had horses, and not Thestrals.  
  
It didn't really matter to him, though. The Slytherin looked up at the ceiling of the coach, looking disinterestedly at the family crest that, too, was painted on the roof of the carriage. The shield background was silver, with a deep green dragon holding a staff dominating the foreground. Draco always thought it was rather neat looking.  
  
"Why don't we just use the Floo network?" he wondered aloud, scowling up at the dragon. Floo was so much faster - practically instantaneous - but oh no, they always had to get dirty going through those damned chimneys. Besides, flying through a chimney and getting covered in soot wasn't a dignified means of transportation for ones such as the Malfoy clan.  
  
So, the carriage it was.  
  
Reaching into the pocket of his robes, the blond pulled out a neatly folded piece of parchment; laying down on his back on the comfortable bench (which, really, felt much more like a bed), he carefully unfolded it, and let his eyes scan the neat writing which marked it.  
  
'Draco,' it began. No "Dear", or any sort of pleasantries like that. 'You are requested to come home immediately. Important family matters must be discussed. A carriage will be sent for you - do not dawdle.' Signed below the short yet vaguely informative letter was Lucius Malfoy's name, calligraphic as ever.  
  
"Important family matters," Draco repeated dully, shifting his eyes back up to the family crest that sat, immobile, above him.  
  
From his experience, 'important family matters' generally equaled 'business with You-Know-Who'. It certainly wasn't a secret that Lucius Malfoy and his respective members of family were generally not on the side that was considered 'light'; it was one of the unspoken facts of life that everyone knew to be true, yet no one dared to speak aloud. After all, Lucius was a prominent member of society - rich and powerful, his name spoke of earthly gain and might, and generally silenced unruly tongues all by itself.  
  
Were such a name to be verbally associated with You-Know-Who, people would claim that it was preposterous, despite the fact that everyone knew that, yes, Lucius supported You-Know-Who more than most anyone. To accuse such a high member of the Ministry of Magic of such things would be akin to blasphemy.  
  
"People are idiots," Draco quietly murmured to himself. This, too, was true. If the Hufflepuff house managed to demonstrate anything, in his opinion, it was just that fact.  
  
Draco knew that whatever his father and mother would have to discuss, it would be important. Extremely important. They didn't call him away from school for just anything.  
  
The Death Eaters. Draco had a feeling, deep down in his gut, that whatever Lucius would have to say, it would have to do with those serving Voldemort. After all, Lucius had the ugly tattoo on his forearm, just like everyone else who wore the robes and masks and did the Dark Lord's bidding.  
  
Draco closed his eyes, and thought for a moment. He figured he knew what Lucius wanted.  
  
It was, after all, getting very close to his seventeenth birthday.  
  
~*~*~  
  
Wow, that was certainly much more Draco and Snape, wasn't it? Damn straight.  
  
So, the plot is moving along. Slowly. And it's thickening. Slowly. It's...getting there. Actually, as it turns out, I think it's going at a relatively nice pace. ^^; I don't want to rush things at all, and whatnot.  
  
Anyhoot, as I promised, this is up before the month is out. Yay for that!  
  
Yay, also, for reviews. Because reviews are a wonderful, beautiful thing that seriously help me to write faster. Yattah.  
  
Keep your stick on the ice.  
  
~Chibikat 


	6. Business is Business

*Disclaimer*: The following disclaimer will be in ghetto slang.  
  
These peeps be the shiznit, yo? I ain't be smacking with packing, cuz that's wack. Ya hizzle ma shizzle fo' rizzle, nizzle? Sheeyit.  
  
Translation: These characters are loved around the world, and do not belong to my very person; I would not dare infringe upon their respective copyrights, for that would incite antagonism in the courts. Regardless, I hope you enjoy the story that I have written for you. Nifty!  
  
Please note, that disclaimer was so dedicated to Silver Phoenix25. She rules us all. Go read "Omelet of Desire", like, right now.  
  
Rating: PG-13 still. Yay children!  
  
Author's Notes: I'm sorry this took so long to come out. I know, I know, I wrote "A Malfoy Family Festivus" and "Book in a Minute" when I should've been writing this, but...to be honest, I sort of hit a stumbling block with this chapter. I'll admit, this is sort of filler, but not really, because there's plot development at the end. Yay plot development.  
  
Special thanks go to Naomi, for sort of beta-ing this for me, and helping me with a particular name. ^_^ Go you.  
  
Thusly, do enjoy this chapter of...  
  
~*~  
  
Finality  
  
~*~  
  
It had taken a few long, tiring days of running around and organizing things to adequately prepare the three Gryffindors and the one Slytherin Head of House for the trip that loomed ahead of them. After Snape had gone up to Dumbledore to protest the man's decision to allow Granger and Weasley along for the ride (and, of course, promptly lost the battle), Dumbledore had had to secure a good teaching replacement for Snape.  
  
It was much easier said than done. As it so happened, one of the reasons that Dumbledore had neglected to give Snape the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher was because of the severe lack of *good* Potions instructors. Half the teachers available were fresh out of school and completely inexperienced, and the other half incompetent beyond all measure. One of the potential candidates had once instructed his students to ingest what he thought to be Essence of Rosemite, which was a common potion used to correct minor ills, such as cramps, headaches, and other such ailments. However, apparently, this certain professor managed to confuse Essence of Rosemite with Gargoyle's Claw - now, while these potions both bore the same, deep purple colour, their viscosity was completely and utterly different.  
  
Not to mention that Gargoyle's Claw, if taken by a person, results in severe cases of hair loss, blindness, and could even put someone in a coma for a good six months, if enough was ingested.  
  
Needless to say, Snape was wary of giving up his teaching post for that particular reason. Granted, it wasn't as if he cared very much about the children's well being (admittedly, he wouldn't force them to imbibe something like, oh, let's say, a potion that would make them spontaneously combust, like Field Clover mixed with Decaflint), but he feared that his replacement simply wouldn't be able to convey the utter importance of potions that Snape himself had to his students.  
  
That, and what if he - or she - was completely soft? Malleable? God help him, outright *friendly*? No, that wouldn't do at all. It would be anarchy.  
  
'I suppose I'll just have to trust Albus. Again,' Snape thought a bit glumly, idly running his finger over the neck of one of the empty flasks that sat upon his desk. He had organized all the marking that the new teacher would need to do - that, certainly, Severus would not miss. It was so very time consuming and annoying and generally very, very tedious. Not that Snape hated tedious things; after all, he would not be in Potions if he hated doing things exactly. It was things that were *needlessly* tedious that made him generally grumpy and annoyed.  
  
He took a long swig of coffee, which contained more than a fair-sized dollop of Firewhiskey. It burned as it passed over his tongue and down his throat, but it was a familiar, good sensation. It let him know that, yes, things were going to become steadily worse, but at least he could get completely pissed before it happened. At the very least, he knew he wasn't an alcoholic. Not at all.  
  
Snape noticed that he was, actually, nearly out of brandy as well. What a wonderful day.  
  
Sighing deeply, he took another rather long drink of coffee and Firewhiskey. The dark times were upon them all, surely. Not that he didn't know that already. It really was only a matter of time before Voldemort rose to power (again), tried to kill Harry Potter (again), and take down the entirety of the Wizarding World with him (again).  
  
"At least the bastard's predictable," Snape muttered under his breath, taking a short, almost angry sip. To be sure, Voldemort *did* have a tendency to be a bit predictable, but it didn't mean that he was any less deadly. No, the recent reports of missing and dead Muggleborns and potential political enemies certainly put that to rest, as it were.  
  
Of course, Fudge wasn't saying anything about it, prick that he was. Snape, remembering how much he hated politics in general, proceeded to drink some more.  
  
A few more minutes of sitting, drinking, and eventually staring off into nothingness later, the potions master rose from the armchair to pace slowly in front of his fireplace, which was crackling about weakly. The lights in his quarters were almost always quite dim, but yet again, the man had managed to lower the illumination in his room to further extents. Since he was a child, Severus had always fancied himself to be a bit of a nocturnal creature, and it showed through.  
  
To be completely honest, and that in itself was a rarity, Snape was feeling a bit odd about everything. While he was more than cognizant of the unfortunate grays that shaded the blacks and whites of fact and fiction that seemed to run rampant during these darkening times, Snape hated having to feel more than one emotion at a time. After all, it was so much easier to feel only anger, only jealousy, only...anything, because it could be effortlessly categorized. It didn't require thought that could have been directed at something more useful, such as lesson plans, potion recipes, or other such things - all it demanded of him was the acknowledgement of what he was feeling, and then he was allowed to proceed with whatever it was he was doing.  
  
This is where that odd feeling came in to play. Severus Snape was not exactly the type of man who would sit and do serious self-analysis on a daily basis; hell, not even on a monthly basis. The very fact that he was doing just that whilst nursing some very poorly concealed alcohol was enough to tell him that something was very, very wrong. As nocturnal as Snape considered himself to be, he knew all too well that darkness easily can become constricting if there is too much of it, and he was rather claustrophobic - of course, Snape would never tell anyone that.  
  
He sipped at his drink. There was something...not right about having to be the newest charge for one Harry Potter. Loathe as he would to admit such a thing, it made him feel incredibly uneasy; it was bad enough, having let the boy sleep in close proximity to his rooms when Harry had foolishly ingested that potion Snape had given him. Now he suddenly had Potter, Granger, *and* Weasley to take care off. What if something happened? Surely, something *would*, considering his ability to attract all sorts of vile creatures to his being (which included one Harry Potter).  
  
Snape refused to curse Dumbledore's name simply out of respect for the older wizard, but he came quite close.  
  
Then, what would happen if Voldemort somehow found out about this? There were so many x-factors that it rightly boggled Snape's mind - he hated having to do things so rashly, for it left too many weaknesses showing. After all, there was no easy way to travel; the magical means of transportation were under more scrutiny than ever, and it wasn't always those working for the Side of Light watching. Floo, Portkeys, even the Knight Bus - there were eyes and ears everywhere. It was disturbing, really.  
  
"Albus will know what to do," Snape murmured quietly as he finally stopped in front of the fire, staring at it. There were very few people that Snape had ever trusted completely - in fact, there were only two of them in his life, and his mother was dead, anyway. Albus Dumbledore was the other one; ironically, he was much like a father figure to him. As far as he knew.  
  
Smirking mirthlessly, Snape took another drink of his spiked coffee.  
  
~*~  
  
In another part of the castle, Ron Weasley was also drinking coffee - of course, it wasn't mixed with Firewhiskey, so unlike Professor Snape, he wasn't slowly wading into the waters of complete and utter drunkenness. That suited him just fine, as it so happened.  
  
Ron was stationed on the loveseat beside Hermione, continuing to drink from the mug in his hand. Harry was sitting quietly in one of the few armchairs that dotted the room, gazing into the fire that burned in the hearth. The scent of coffee mixed with that of slowly burning firewood, filling the Gryffindor common room with a rather homely, comforting aroma. The other Gryffindor students had gone to bed, which left the trio quite alone.  
  
"So we leave soon, don't we?" Ron said quietly, feeling his hands being warmed by the hot liquid within the mug. Hermione shifted a bit in her seat, turning the page of the novel she was reading.  
  
"We ought to be. Snape or Dumbledore haven't said anything about when we actually leave, have they, Harry?" she asked, looking over to the dark haired boy in the chair across from her. Harry sighed almost inaudibly.  
  
"No, they haven't. They must still be finalizing plans, or...something," Harry reasoned, stretching his arms out a little bit.  
  
"Makes sense. They'd want to be as prepared for this as possible," Hermione concluded, beginning to read the new page of her book. Ron took another sip of his drink.  
  
"I guess we won't be Apparating or Flooing anywhere, will we? I've been talking to Charlie, and he said that the networks are still being all monitored and such. And with those dunderheads at the Ministry still running things, I wouldn't be surprised if they've let even more Death Eaters into their fold," he said, snorting a little. "Complete wankers, the lot of them. 'Cept for my dad, of course."  
  
"Now Ron, I'm sure they're not *all* conspiring against us," Hermione reasoned, still scanning the page of her novel. "Generalizations are never true." Ron raised his eyebrows in defiance.  
  
"Oh yeah? 'All Slytherins are nasty, annoying gits'. Go on, defend them," Ron stated, smirking a little as he drank some more of his coffee. Hermione shot Ron a look of utter annoyance.  
  
"At least they aren't as childish as *you* can be sometimes, Ron," she said, turning her attention back to her book.  
  
"You know, I was supposed to be sorted into Slytherin," Harry said offhandedly, barely looking over at Ron and Hermione. It effectively stopped a very slowly escalating argument between the two of them.  
  
"Seriously? I mean, you've got to be kidding me," Ron said, rather shocked.  
  
"Nope. The Sorting Hat said I'd do quite well in Slytherin. Actually, it was because I outright begged it to sort me anywhere *but* Slytherin that I ended up here, I think."  
  
"Well that hat obviously has a mental defect. You're about as Slytherin as Malfoy is Gryffindor, if you want a bit of a twisted, self-explanatory analogy," Ron offered.  
  
"I'm pretty sure the hat isn't mentally challenged. It got everyone else pretty much right, didn't it?" Harry sighed. "But I guess there isn't much use in dwelling on that now. In a week's time or so, Houses aren't going to matter, are they? It's just a Hogwarts thing, after all."  
  
Hermione and Ron were rather silent after such a realization. Ron went back to sipping quietly at his coffee, and Hermione finished another couple of pages of her novel before speaking up.  
  
"Harry's right," she said. "The Houses...well, they *are* sort of like generalizations, aren't they?"  
  
"Hermione, not another semantics argument, please?" Ron demi-begged.  
  
"You know what semantics are?" she asked, unable to keep herself from sounding incredulous. Ron's ears burned in embarrassment.  
  
"I'm not an idiot, you know," he muttered, finishing off the rest of his coffee. Hermione actually looked rather offended.  
  
"That's not what I meant, Ron!"  
  
"Yeah, well, it's what you implied!"  
  
"Now who's getting into semantics?"  
  
"Oh, kiss my - "  
  
"Would you two give it a rest?" Harry finally said, sounding rather peeved by the bantering. "Any chance you get, the two of you are always down each others' throats!"  
  
Ron and Hermione stared at Harry. Ron took Harry's comment the wrong way and blushed a very deep shade of red. Hermione, looking a bit flushed, looked back down at her book.  
  
"Well, I would hardly say we're...what *you* said, Harry," Hermione responded quietly, peeking up at Harry over the top of her copy of 'To Kill a Mockingbird'. Harry glanced at Ron, who had suddenly found the pattern on his coffee mug to be of utmost interest.  
  
"Just lay off it for a while, okay?" the black haired boy asked, sounding rather exhausted. He slumped back into the armchair, sinking into it, staring at the fire.  
  
"There are more important things than stupid little squabbles, is all." Harry's voice was quiet, and carried that undertone of melancholy that had seemed to accompany him since the end of Fourth Year. Ron looked rather worried, with his eyebrows furrowed in concern.  
  
"I...yeah. You're right, Harry. Sorry 'bout that," he apologized equally quietly.  
  
"Me too," Hermione agreed, casting a sideways glance at Ron before focusing her attention solely on Harry once more.  
  
The common room was exceptionally quiet for nearly ten minutes thereafter.  
  
"Y'know, it's really quiet," Ron astutely observed.  
  
"Very insightful," Hermione quipped good-naturedly. Ron rolled his eyes.  
  
"I meant that it's just been really quiet lately, all in all. Did you notice that? After our fun little meeting with Snape, nothing much has gone on," the Weasley said. Hermione thought about this.  
  
"Now that you mention it, I've noticed that too. It's almost been boring," she said, surprising herself a little bit. "It could just be the anticipation for us leaving."  
  
"Nah, it's more than that. Something's gotta be missing, but I can't quite put my finger on it," Ron, with furrowed eyebrows, thought aloud. Harry stretched his legs out a bit.  
  
"Malfoy," the boy said simply.  
  
"Malfoy? What about him?" Ron asked, blinking once.  
  
"Malfoy's the missing thing you were thinking of. He hasn't been around for the past few days," Harry explained, reaching over from his seat in the armchair to reach his goblet of pumpkin juice that hadn't quite been finished yet.  
  
"Hn. Guess he hasn't been in class. Maybe we got lucky and he took a short walk off a tall cliff," Ron said with a smirk. Hermione smacked him on the shoulder. "Ow, Hermione. You and your physical abuse, woman!"  
  
"That wasn't very nice, Ron."  
  
"In all fairness, Malfoy isn't very nice, Hermione."  
  
"Be that as it may, it's terrible to wish something like...that...on anybody, and that includes Malfoy. Come now, Ron, I thought better of you." She looked back down at her novel, consequentially missing the rather stunned expression that Ron bore.  
  
"Sorry, Hermione. Didn't know it'd make you so upset," he said a bit quietly. She sighed.  
  
"You didn't make me *upset*, I'm just saying that wishing death on people generally isn't a good thing to do. Don't you agree, Harry?" There was no answer. Hermione looked up from her book, and cast her eyes around the common room. "Harry?"  
  
Ron and Hermione had failed to notice that Harry had retreated up the boys' dormitories about five minutes ago.  
  
"Well *that* was rude," Hermione half-heartedly huffed.  
  
"I bet he wished death on somebody on his way up, too," Ron said with a grin. Hermione smacked him on the shoulder again.  
  
"As impolite as it was for him to have gone up without a word to us, I must agree that it sounds like a good idea," Hermione announced, standing up from the loveseat, stretching out a smidge. "Goodnight, Ron."  
  
"Night, Hermione," he said, watching her go up the stairs to the girls' wing. Sitting for a moment, continuing to look at the stairwell upon which Hermione climbed, Ron finally yawned, and decided to pack it in for the night.  
  
He made his way up the stone stairs to the Gryffindor boys' dormitories, to find Harry sitting cross-legged at the end of his four-poster, idly playing with the fastenings on his school robe. A bit puzzled by this, Ron walked up to where Harry was sitting, and looked down at him.  
  
"Got something on your mind?" he asked amiably enough, smiling a bit in a rather curious fashion. Harry blinked and looked up at Ron suddenly, obviously startled out of whatever thoughts he was sifting through.  
  
"Huh? Oh, no. I mean, not really." Ron quirked an eyebrow, and sat beside Harry, careful to keep his voice quiet, seeing that the other Gryffindor boys were sleeping quite soundly. Equally quietly, Ron waved his wand and uttered a Silencing Charm, encasing the four-poster. Precautionary measure, and all; though, considering Ron was a Prefect, it wouldn't have really mattered in the end.  
  
"Well, which is it - no, or not really? Because there's a difference," the freckled boy stated. Harry glanced over at him, and sighed quietly, lightly tugging at the hem of his robe.  
  
"It's nothing, really," Harry whispered.  
  
"You're worse than a woman, you know," Ron said with a smirk.  
  
"So you've told me before."  
  
"I have?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Ron cleared his throat.  
  
"Well, then. I guess I'll have to think of a different simile, eventually." Harry barely smiled at this, but remained quiet. Ron gently nudged him. "Hey. Things are gonna be alright. Okay?"  
  
"You don't know that, Ron. Nobody does," Harry replied, running a hand through his hair. Ron bit his lip.  
  
"Well, *somebody* has to be optimistic here. We've gotten through some bad times before, and we've come out just fine, haven't we?" Ron thought maybe he heard Harry barely whisper the name of his late godfather under his breath, but couldn't be sure. Sympathy showed clearly on Ron's face, but words about that particular incident still continued to elude him.  
  
"There's no reason we can't roll with the punches this time, Harry. We're a bit older and wiser now - everyone is. Things'll work out fine in the end."  
  
Harry continued to look downwards, and persisted his incessant fiddling with his robes, which he always seemed to do when he was either nervous or deeply in thought about something. Quietly, he looked over at Ron.  
  
"I know you're right about that. At least, I think I know; I honestly can't be too sure about anything anymore," Harry said, quickly corrected himself. "Anyway. It's not that I don't trust you or Hermione to help me through this - far from it, really - it's just..."  
  
Harry looked a bit uncomfortable, and a strained smile broke through on his face.  
  
"You're going to think I'm completely daft if I say this..." Ron just smiled.  
  
"Don't worry, mate. I already think you're completely daft," he said with a soft chuckle, "But I'm still here, aren't I? Come on, if you can't tell *me*, who can you tell?"  
  
Harry's smile unstrained itself a little bit. "I suppose."  
  
"You're damn right you suppose. Now, tell old Ron what's bothering you." Harry breathed out silently.  
  
"This is going to sound very weird, but...it just...you know, with Malfoy gone...it just feels...sort of...wrong," Harry said haltingly.  
  
Ron blinked.  
  
"You're right. That *did* sound very weird," Ron said, looking rightly confused. Harry sighed in a bit of frustration.  
  
"That didn't come out quite right. What I meant to say was that we're leaving Hogwarts, and since the first day I arrived, Malfoy was always there to generally be an obnoxious prat. Much as I hate to admit it...well, it's just not the same without him here." Harry bit his lip in thought. "Don't get me wrong, I hate the little bugger, but..."  
  
"It's the rival thing, isn't it?" Ron stated, more than asked.  
  
"Yeah. It's the rival thing." The Weasley nodded.  
  
"I think I get it."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, really. Now that you mention it, I would really have liked to leave that git with some real nasty parting words. And gifts. Maybe transfigure him into a ferret again," Ron said, smirking at his friend. Harry laughed softly.  
  
"If only, eh?" Harry said, his laughter ending with a shallow sigh.  
  
"Yeah, if only," Ron echoed, still smiling. "I think we'll get over it, though. Besides, Snape's as much of a snarky bastard as Malfoy, and we have to leave Hogwarts with *him*, of all people. If, uh, that makes you feel better." Both Harry and Ron smirked at this.  
  
"Thanks, Ron," Harry said.  
  
"It's what I do, Harry. It's what I do," Ron explained sagely. He then stretched his arms above his head.  
  
"Now, I need some sleep, so I'll be off," Ron said, barely concealing a yawn. He put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Promise me you won't immediately delve into existential brooding once I leave?" Harry couldn't help but laugh in his bit self-deprecating way.  
  
"Yes, yes, I promise. Okay?" Ron nodded and smiled.  
  
"Okay. Night, Harry," he said. Lifting the Silence Charm with a couple smooth wand movements, Ron stood up from the end of Harry's bed, and walked as quietly as he could down the hallway, where the other Gryffindors were sleeping quite soundly. Halfway down, Harry heard something hit something else rather hard, followed by Ron swearing under his breath. Luckily, nobody woke up.  
  
Harry stripped himself down to his boxers, and laid back on the wonderfully comfortable bed, drawing the curtains closed all around him. He really did find it odd that there was a tiny, almost insignificant part of him that sort of missed Malfoy and his belligerency - but, true to his word, Harry didn't explore the issue deeper, as Ron would probably consider such thoughts to be existentialist.  
  
~*~  
  
Draco awoke when he felt the carriage slowing down. He let one eye open first, then the other, noticing that the family crest was still staring down at him. Ignoring it, he stretched out a bit, and sat up; looking out the window, Malfoy Manor loomed in the not-too-distant distance, large and imposing and rather stylish as ever.  
  
Slowly, as he came closer, Draco could make out some of its more individual aspects; flanked on either side by impressive forests, Malfoy Manor's commanding gray and brown stood out impressively amongst all the green foliage. Obviously built during the transitional period in history from Dark Ages to pseudo-Victorian, the house was old, but remarkably well kept. It hadn't the shape of a castle, but it certainly had its ambience; the mansion, while only three stories tall, stretched out for what seemed to be miles behind and beside itself. Truly, it was as beautiful as it was imposing.  
  
The gate that barred the Malfoy abode from the rest of the outside world opened obligingly for the carriage, which carried the young master within, and it seemed to almost glide upon the paved path. The carriage itself was the embodiment of money well spent, Draco thought.  
  
The carriage went around the stone fountain, and stopped in front of the large, oak double doors that presented the entrance into the behemoth of a house. Draco opened the door of the carriage, and stepped out; immediately, House Elves seemed to appear rightly out of nowhere, and set about to collecting Draco's bags.  
  
"At least they're efficient," he muttered to himself, watching as they scurried about, picking up what they could. The little things struggled under some of the heavier bits of luggage, but they moved without a fuss. Of course, it wasn't as if they *could* move with anything less than that, or else they'd be killed - or worse, set free.  
  
Draco carefully made his steps languid, though he wasn't quite sure why. With feet that were nearly soundless on the paved way beneath him, the boy walked towards the superfluously large doors of the mansion. With a bit of difficulty, one of the House Elves managed to push one of the double doors open for its young master.  
  
He stepped inside the abode, which was perpetually chilly; many parts of the house were made of either marble or stone, which did nothing for warmth. The foyer stretched out effortlessly, punctuated only by a classy, marble spiral staircase some few feet in front of the doorway.  
  
"Déjà vu," Draco mumbled to himself; not even a month back in school, and already, he was home. Regardless of the quietness of his remark, his voice echoed clearly throughout the foyer.  
  
His father would most likely have stationed himself in the parlor. Whenever Draco was summoned home previously in similar fashion, Lucius would almost always be in the same place - reading, finishing papers, or simply watching the fire with a tumbler of scotch, always in the armchair right by the hearth. At the very least, the environment was soothing if the man inhabiting it was not.  
  
Draco breathed quietly, walking down the hall and through a series of rooms calmly. The entire house was utterly silent, and Draco could feel the weight of some unknown thing about ready to almost drop solidly upon him. It was as exciting as it was deeply unsettling.  
  
When he arrived, the young Malfoy found the door to the parlor closed.  
  
"Strange," he thought aloud. However, Draco could also hear voices - nearly muted, yet still barely audible - through the blockade of deep mahogany. Automatically, Draco recognized one half of the conversation as the property of his father; however, the other man's voice, distinctly sharp, yet oddly warm, Draco was unable to place.  
  
With heartbeats steadily increasing in number, Draco knocked twice on the door. The conversation abruptly stopped.  
  
"Enter, Draco," he heard his father say. Setting his jaw, Draco opened the door, and stepped into the roo,.  
  
"I received your owl," Draco stated, shutting the door behind him.  
  
"As I can see," Lucius replied. He stood and beckoned Draco to come further into the room with his arm.  
  
Immediately, Draco noticed that his father looked much older than last he saw him. He seemed more thin; gray, which had started to come in during the summer, seemed much more prominent at his temples than before, yet still barely distinguishable from his platinum locks, though just enough so. His eyes had faded from striking blue to an unusually light gray as well. He would've looked haggard, almost frail, were he anyone but Lucius Malfoy.  
  
Dressed in fine robes, his air of confidence still clung to him like a lifeline; but Draco could sense something else, some feeling that pervaded the room, though he wasn't sure quite what.  
  
"I regret calling you away from your studies so early on, but opportunity has presented itself," Lucius explained to his son.  
  
"Opportunity?" Draco asked, feeling unsettled by the almost...playful tone in his father's voice.  
  
"Opportunity," Lucius repeated. "As you know, we've had to be very careful lately. We can't rely on the Ministry for anything anymore, bloody fence straddlers they are." Draco assumed that when Lucius said "we", he really meant "the Death Eaters". He kept silent, and allowed Lucius to continue.  
  
"But our numbers are strong - almost every day, people are coming to their senses, and uniting with the Dark Lord's side. Yet we must remain secret. Now isn't the time for such things. We first must infiltrate," he said, taking a drink of scotch.  
  
"I know, Father. You've told me this before," Draco replied, unable to quite suppress his ingrained drawl. Lucius smirked.  
  
"Of course I have," he said simply. Lucius crossed the room, past his armchair, to the other chair facing the fire, effectively blocking Draco's view of the other person in it.  
  
"There is someone I would like you to meet, Draco."  
  
At this, the other man stood. Rising gracefully from the leather chair, he walked over to Draco with smooth, perfectly distanced strides. Dressed relatively casually in beige slacks, boots, a white shirt and a matching beige dress vest, his posture leant elegance to otherwise common garb, and allowed for sophistication.  
  
"Wonderful to finally meet you, I've heard such promising things," he said, smiling politely. His dark brown eyes remained aloof under a charming smile and well kept, equally dark brown hair, brushed perfectly and parted to the side.  
  
The man extended his hand, milky and smoothed by a lifetime without labour. Draco took it without hesitation; his handshake was firmer than Draco expected.  
  
"This is Hugo Almsworth, a close associate of mine; he has ties with the Ministry, but is smart enough to not get directly involved with them," Lucius said with a dark chuckle, which was shared by Hugh, like some sort of inside joke.  
  
"A pleasure, Mr. Almsworth," Draco stated automatically. He'd heard of the Almsworth family - they had a fortune that extended through the purest of pure bloodlines, mainly due to the fact that they were one of the first families to discover the wonders of corporations and business conglomerates; the Almsworths, in fact, bought out the Nimbus company nearly fifteen years earlier, making them one of the wealthiest Wizarding families in existence. Draco, actually, was quite positive that the wealth of the Almsworth family exceeded even that of the Malfoys.  
  
Close associate, indeed. Draco knew that when, almost two years ago, Lucius was put in Azkaban by Potter, one of the Almsworth clan had pulled some strings to get Lucius and his cronies out in less than a month. That, of course, was not in the papers, because the Almsworths also had stock in the Daily Prophet.  
  
Hugo smiled again at Draco.  
  
"A spitting image, really," the man commented, studying the youngest Malfoy as if he were some sort of vaguely interesting anomaly. "The resemblance is uncanny. You must be proud, Lucius."  
  
"Generally I am, yes. Though his abilities as a Seeker are nothing to write home about, from what I've seen and heard," Lucius said airily, taking another drink of alcohol.  
  
"Lucky for him that Quidditch is just a silly little game, then," Hugo responded with a smirk.  
  
Draco utterly despised it when people spoke of him as if he weren't there; in any other situation, he would have ready a scathing remark or two, along with a cold sneer and the threat of Crabbe and/or Goyle. However, considering the people in question were his father and the richest man in all of England, Draco decided it couldn't do too much harm to bite his tongue, if just this once.  
  
"Indeed," Lucius said over the rim of his glass. "He's an excellent duelist, though."  
  
"Is he now?" The Almsworth patriarch looked back over at Draco, and smiled again. "Then certainly, his abilities lie exactly where they are most needed, don't they?"  
  
"Yes, *my* abilities do, thank you very much," Draco finally said, his annoyance quickly coming to a head. Patience, as far as Draco was concerned, was not a virtue, but a pain in the ass. Lucius' eyebrow arched almost imperceptibly, and Hugo chuckled.  
  
"Charming, Lucius! Absolutely charming!" he exclaimed. Draco was not at all amused.  
  
"I'm sorry if I sound belligerent, *sir*, but if you simply want to continue to discuss me as if I weren't here, then perhaps I could be doing something constructive. Elsewhere." By this time, Draco had crossed his arms against his chest, and did his very best to be haughtier than he'd ever been before. Hugo's chuckling died down, leaving the barest quirk of a smile on his carefully sculpted features.  
  
"Clearly, you're a man who knows what he wants."  
  
"Clearly, I am. Now, there is obviously something important you wish to discuss with me, or else I would still be at Hogwarts, and the richest man in England would be doing something far more expensive than sitting with my father and drinking scotch."  
  
Hugo laughed again.  
  
"And what a wit! No wonder He's had his eye on your boy for so long," the man commented to Lucius. Hugo's jovial smile still seemed oddly bereft of any sort of jovialness under his eyes, which never changed expressions. Draco furrowed his eyebrows.  
  
"He? Just who is this 'he' you're speaking of?" The boy, deep down, felt that he probably already knew the answer.  
  
"Voldemort, of course," Lucius replied, finishing off his tumbler of scotch. He placed it on the small table beside his armchair, which was supposed to be more for decoration than anything, but always wound up bearing at least one glass of alcohol a day. Lucius walked closer to his son.  
  
"It's time you started growing up, Draco. After all, you turn seventeen in a week," the eldest Malfoy said.  
  
"Three days, actually," Draco corrected.  
  
Hugo smiled in amusement. Lucius chewed slightly on the inside of his bottom lip.  
  
"Three days. Even better. The Dark Lord is swiftly growing in strength; soon, he will be more powerful than could ever be imagined. But as we've found out, sheer power isn't enough," Lucius explained, taking his empty glass over to the liquor cabinet. Minimal time was spent searching before he found the bottle he desired, and Lucius proceeded to pour its contents into the tumbler.  
  
"You want me for reconnaissance, is that it?" Draco clarified, watching as his father poured himself more alcohol.  
  
"Among other things," said Lucius, after taking a hearty swig of scotch.  
  
"What your father said was correct. You're certainly no young boy, and the Dark Lord sees such promise in you; spies are needed, but you could also be doing so much more," Hugo explained.  
  
Draco blinked. Voldemort himself had apparently complimented him, in a sort of roundabout, through-a-messenger sort of way. To his knowledge, Voldemort rarely complimented *anyone*, never mind a teenager with whom he has never had a proper meeting with. If nothing else, it at least allowed his ego to swell; but also, it made Draco a mite suspicious.  
  
Why *would* Hugo Almsworth be meeting with him? Unless, of course...  
  
"By 'so much more', do you mean that I will be helping my father in helping him pay his debt back to you, as it were?" Draco asked almost monotonously, arching an eyebrow. Hugo's smile faded back to that crooked smirk.  
  
"Let it not be said that a Malfoy is thick," he said simply. Hugo took in a quiet breath. "True, I did help your father out of prison, and true, there is a debt he needs to pay me. Now, certainly, your family is extremely well off - but of course, so is mine. Payment in money would be absolutely useless, wouldn't it?"  
  
Draco most certainly did not like wherever this strain of conversation was heading.  
  
"Prior to the mishap at the Department of Mysteries, your father was Voldemort's right hand man. Weren't you, Lucius?"  
  
Lucius responded by taking another long drink. Hugo smiled.  
  
"But since he was put in prison, along with so many other high-ranking Death Eaters, Voldemort needed someone to help him recover. This is where I enter into things; you see, I was the one to financially back Voldemort in what he did for his recovery, because the occupation of Dark Lord and Master, sadly, doesn't pay very well." Hugo walked over to one of the bookshelves, and idly played with a couple of the titles.  
  
"I offered to spring you father from prison, as it were, in exchange for a few things. The first one was his ranking in the Death Eaters - even after all I had done for Voldemort, my lack of 'field experience', or something along those lines, seriously impaired my chances for ascending the ranks."  
  
Draco looked back at his father, and for once in his life, he didn't look proud. It unnerved Draco so greatly that his fingers began trembling minutely.  
  
"And the other?" the young Malfoy asked, hesitant to know the answer.  
  
Hugo smiled charmingly at Draco.  
  
"Well, you'll obviously be more under the control of Voldemort than me, but..."  
  
All colour drained from Draco's face.  
  
"You mean, I...?" he squeaked out.  
  
"You make it sound so terrible. You were going to be inducted into the Death Eaters anyway, weren't you?" Hugo asked.  
  
"Well - !"  
  
"Of course you were, you're a Malfoy. All Malfoys become Death Eaters," Hugo said, breezing by Draco's potential comment with the wave of his hand. "Secondly, this automatically guarantees a high-ranking for you. It's a win-win situation, I really don't see the problem. You'll simply be working for me as well. That's all."  
  
Draco's mouth moved just fine, but no words made their way out. Incredulously, he looked back at his father, whose pride had failed him at that moment.  
  
"Stop being ridiculous, Draco," Lucius muttered. "You should know better than anyone that there's always a bigger fish."  
  
"But Father...!"  
  
"But nothing, son. Business is business, and a deal is a deal. Besides, Mr. Almsworth is correct; you would be joining the ranks of the Death Eaters, regardless of this. In fact, things are easier for you now."  
  
Lucius didn't sound like he meant a word of what he said. He was also beginning to sound a little drunk.  
  
Draco turned his head back to Hugo Almsworth, his eyes widened, his mouth barely open in a soundless question.  
  
Hugo smiled amiably, but his eyes looked colder than ever.  
  
~*~  
  
I apologize for how long it took for this to come out, I really do. Between going away for Christmas break, ISUs, upcoming exams, and the general lack of time I've had, it's been sort of tough to sit down and write more of Finality. I also realize that this chapter is much shorter than all the others; but I'm thinking of actually shortening all the chapters eventually, because something that's too long is just as bad as something that's too short.  
  
So. Yes. On that note...reviewing will give you magical powers.  
  
Please note, these magical powers are limited to cellular respiration and the ability to drink an entire bottle of Coke in one sitting.  
  
~Chibikat 


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